I feel perverse. Have you ever walked behind someone, watching their legs? I couldn't get out of my mind, all I could think about, were those legs and how one day they would be wrapped around someone else's. Would it be worth it? Would they enjoy it? I suppose that it's the fate of all people, to live and die and procreate. Not in that order, not to be morbid, nay-saying, a doom-seeker, but it's what occurred to me at the time. The purpose of paper is to preserve the moment, so I grabbed the first paper I saw. I don't remember writing it, but it's in my handwriting, there, pencil on a yellow flier. Don't forget. Don't forgive. And this is just how I feel this week. Mortal. I'm writing everything down, trying to preserve it. Fleeting. I could copy here what I wrote last night in the dark, sideways and criss-crossing, but I won't. I didn't capture anything of importance, except I was in the garage, on the verge of a panic attack. No rhyme or reason, just because I could. Because my lungs were full of smoke and my music was loud and my mind was going. Just.. going. I was writing, and most of it makes no sense, except for one mirage of reality that I wish I hadn't glimpsed. I hate to admit that I need[ed] this, but I did. This is a shell of what I was trying to capture last night. I still didn't do it, but I gave it a good try.