here i am again, thinking about stories.
about people who tell stories.
sometimes i wish i could be just like them. wish i would see things and secretly pull facts from some outer world, making up dense and worth publishing stories.
i just don't feel comfortable.
my father used to say that being so factual was going to kill me.
he told me the lack of magical and mystical thinking put into work was the root of all evil.
forgive me, father.
i will forgive you,
for you have kept yourself only imagining
what would happen in our
real world
together.