i have a horrible secret.
so much is looked up, here, in my head
how many nights did I go, lying in bed writing letters to anonymous people?
how many times did I walk around, thinking of extraordinary things, ideas, only to have forgotten them later on?
how many times have i started letters, emails, any type of correspondences, only to have stopped to read Dilbert’s quote of the day? Becoming so absorbed that i end up finishing out the whole year of quotes?
how many times have i thought about calling, saying “i’ll do it tomorrow’ to look up an see that months have gone by?
how many times have i started writing poetry only to stop halfway…