November 14th, 2001:

I was going to the Across the Street Bar. I put clothes in the dryer and made arrangements to pick up my drum. Then… all of a sudden I changed my mind, watched Voyager, and am considering going to bed early.

I guess I’m just an old fart.

You want this
to be over as badly as I do.
I know this,
because we talk
even though we aren’t speaking.
And even though you are so
many miles away,
I know you are sitting
right next to me.

I have said all I can.
It’s your turn.

It has been a week.
It is getting easier.
I am breathing a little better.

You can separate us.
Here.
Physically.

You can hold me
accountable
for your actions,
because you
don’t want to feel
bad for your
wrong doings.

You can never separate us.
Spiritually.

You are one of my twenty in eight billion.
And that means I am one of yours.

Here.
Now.
I don’t want to lose you.

I’m not going to
spend time securing you
when you are unwilling to bend.
Unwilling to accept me.
I have other people to find.

We have forever, after all.

I can’t wait for forever to start.
With you.

I am considering attending the Wednesday night Drum Jam this evening. I am also considering getting coffee (before. after. instead of. I am not sure). Anyone interested?