Fragments

The neighbors had a birthday party again. It must be the layout of the street; it's perpendicular to the main road and not many cars pass by it.

I can hear the clinking of empty bottles being put away, chiming in their memory of good times and promises of hangovers come tomorrow.

I started reading again, after nearly a year of keeping away from anything beautiful enough to take me out of my head.

I sort of wish I hadn't picked this particular book, Danielewski's House of Leaves, for it's an Ouroboros of a book and makes you devour your own mind.

I am sort of glad I picked this particular book.

I stopped reading after 300 or so pages, my eyes and head hurting, sipping tea that have long since gone cold, and staring at the window.

The moon shows through the sliver of opening at my window, and I don't need it neither does it need me; it contains no hyperboles nor promises forgotten or broken, broken in their having forgotten, forgetting their brokenness for hopes that will yet again shatter.

The house across the street has put up blinking lights which tattoo their strobe across my wall, both calming and infuriating me in their intrusion as real.

I close my window. There is nothing real, not the chiming of bottles, a book, not even the moon.

I am alone. I am still.

I am still alone.

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