I've grown accustomed to puns and faux splashes of humour, and through all this I still don't know if anyone reads my little conception of thought

I've sat and thought about things.

I'm awake.

I'm asleep.

I've sat and dreamt about things.

I'm here.

I'm not.

I've felt this once before.

I'm spent.

I'm old.

When you rotate the carpet, with this in the middle-- that piano in the background and sultry singers in seance will send you to sleep. But if sleep is real than is this a trap? Is this box just set to the tick, tick, tick of your time bomb? The one you shoved under the boards?

I lose track of my occasional thoughts, but maybe, its just sleep that I've lost. I snap my fingers when I walk across campus, and I hum when I'm alone. It's constant. Because maybe you aren't real-- or this is just a story read to some boy alone in his room. By his friend. Whomever that may be.

And I am your hero. I am you in a red cape and magic boots. I am you fighting the bad guys. I am you alone on your porcelian floor. Snapping fingers--humming things.

But are you out there? I forgot about this, more so than how I've forgot how to read, or write, or function in any sort of comprehensible English prose whatsoever-- or ever. I need a book. I need something to fill. I need to rest. I need these sorts of things.