In which I give a chaotic ramble about the attempt I’m making to order something which is beautifully chaotic in subject matter, but should be orderly on the outside.
In which I believe I was under the influence — of memory, a dash of loneliness, and a side-dish of self-realization.
In which I am apparently hyped up on sugar and fictional existences.
In which I try to understand my position on my position of understanding.
In which my brain tries to digest a bit of crusty memory, but ultimate just turns it into mind crap.