You can go through this life without understanding much, dear, lonely spirit. Your head acts more like an interface for an abused reprimand than change in somebody else’s artifice. It’s okay if you don’t understand.

Not everyone you meet will be your friend. That’s default. Why else do you think when we grow up, that we have to be paid in order to survive, to do our life’s work in the company of others? It’s called “maintenance” for this very one reason.

Like say as today, when Monica, your fellow camera operator, berated you, how your entire body consciousness couldn’t let go of the possibilty that this pothead pseudo-intellectual could be kidding?

Another reason for clean living. For proactivity set against the march of iced-down repeats.

I don’t need a social lubricant. If you go to a party and find the scar of the moment a halcyon streak along the wall, that would be me, taking note of what you did, without so much an insipid word. I think we're going to be culled from the wreck any day now, Cassiel.

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