Reflecting. It troubles my psyche. I’m disappointed in it in the same way I’m disappointed in not keeping record. I got so rapt. Fuck, the rhythm my body got used to in one swift. I used to write, and then I was found. Why have I not even journals anymore? Not any art piece even stirred out of me. Everything except you was worthless. I, wanting nothing but you. Nothing. How’ve I not been cataloging? A dark fear is forgetting you. The you pureness. The perfect blankness you provide in yourself for me when I am desperate to escape from the madness. That’s why before I found you I wrote the way you did. I almost hated you. Masterpiece. I so desperately, almost hurriedly used to exist in a constant motion of scooping, but these past two years have been snowflakes. So delicate and beautiful and as if slow motion, then suddenly morphed to fast-forward. All of the sudden, accumulation. Abruptly, and disrupting. I got so rapt. I forgot to write. I forgot motion exploded sometimes. I’ve been reflecting on how scarcely I’ve been the same way. I get disappointed every time. All past emptyings, now I have to fill, fill, fill. Bloated because I wasn't supposed to ever find you, though I have indulged. I wanted my world of wishful. Yet, so aggressively they would melt. How’ve you not evaporated?