I sit here topless reading words on a lit screen. That's what happens when I multi task, I forget things like getting dressed. I miss things sometimes, obvious things. But I still see more than anyone would expect. I anticipate moves and behaviors but I can't seem to put any faith in my preminitions untill after the fact. That's because I'm a sceptic and that's what we do. I have many journals on line and this one is read the least. No one comes here. If you are here consider yourself a no one. If my chest where a size smaller I would go topless all the time. I can say that here because no one reads it yet I type it because it is still out there in space with the possibility of being read at some time. I had a thought the othere day. If I died would anyone take the time to go through my wrightings? I have several old journals and some note books with ideas for this that and the other. A sketch book or two... would anyone flip through them or would they just be stashed in a box or tossed in the trash? would someone care about therandom valentine cards or calander pages saved in my desk drawer or would they assume that they had no more value than of what they are. What would they do with the half knitted scarf that has been that way for a year, or the tie on the door nob that has been tied in the same knot for 5 years since it was around Peters neck. They wouldn't care. To them it would just be some string... an ugly tie, some chicken scratch in cheep diaries,some worthless attempts at drawing... random bits of trash... but that is the evidence of my life my friends... odd little things like that. I could narrate quite a story about each individual object in my room at the moment. complete with rabbit trails... anyway I think it's time for a shirt...