Ack. It's getting harder and harder to say the things that I mean to say. I would consider taking a vow of silence if I thought that I could properly explain to someone why I wouldn't be saying anything for a while. I'd like to not have to explain to anyone, but I think it may be impossible for me to have a life not wrapped up in other people's lives. I'm lonesome as it is.

I think I'm a little too good at playing aloof. I've aloofed myself right into this mess.

When I was a teenager I would write song lyrics in the margins of my notebooks. Not songs that I'd written myself, just songs that I liked. I used to get a sort of satisfaction out of it. I don't think I would now, which strikes me as strange, because in most ways I still feel like a teenager. Well, maybe not most ways.

When I was a little girl, I ran all the time, no matter how short the distance. I would run full speed down the hallway that led from my bedroom to the living room, hooking right at the end of the hall and cutting across the room towards the kitchen. When I was about six or seven my mother bought a glass-topped coffee table. Every once in a while when I shot into the room, I would misjudge the turn and hit hard into a glass corner. I still have scars at the sides of my knees.

I don't know why I should be thinking about these things now, but I am. I can do all of the things that I need to do. If I'm really any good, I'll do them quickly. I have to, I have to, I have to...