Question:

Hey there little bloggie, long time no see? Who got your goat huh? Life caught up with you finally? Or do you still dream of white lofty pillars with no roof and white smoky clouds all about them? How's that perfect world of yours coming along?

How does the fabric feel to your fingers? Is it rough? Cutting? Do your fingers have burns yet? Oh they will. It's not made to feel good, do you see? It's made for efficiency, to survive at the cost of its wearers. How's that poetry going?

You still write of shit? Such bad taste. Never get you anywhere.

Answer now, how do you think this ends?

________
Answer:

The way it ends is, I sit on a roofless pillar somewhere down the block, and breathe the stench of the earth. And think of goats crossing a mountain some green winter. And then I get up, climb down and walk to my car. I get in, I turn the radio on, and I sing like mad. Then I get down again, walk to my small, shabby little workspace, and I create. I spend a day dying a good death on my computer and I jump into the roof when it finally works. I walk right outside and shout 'Eureka' in my head a few times. And then I drive back home. I hurt my eyes some more. Absorb useless facts. And then i try to sleep.

I try to sleep every night. I succeed fairly enough, but always a tad too late. It's because I'm an optimist and I believe in two miracles a day. And because I always err on the side of overestimating myself. I like that about me, but I'd sure like to sleep just a little earlier every day.

I feel the fabric. It's coarse. It's rough sometimes, much, but in a meaningful way, and only when I was making an ignorant mistake. It's not smooth as silk, if it were it would slip right past my learning fingers and i'd never know what hit me. But it's grippy. It's the sort of rough that holds your fingers and teaches them to pull. It burns, i've got a few, but only when it slides too fast and you're pulling with all your might. The burns, they're good. Like marks on your nose from an accident. Like bullet grazes from that war you either won a medal in, or nearly died in. They're anchored points in time. They're history books.

The way it ends, for lack of a better word or ending, is satisfactory.

Only because, you know, it kind of makes sense the way it is. I wouldn't know what to change if i could.

Well, almost.