Nothing is novel anymore. I don't quite understand it, but I feel it, it itches. I told a few friends I feel disillusioned. But maybe I'm just accustomed. Acculturated, to put a positive spin. Grown up, to euphemise. Things seem to come, as if a shuttle, then go away, then another shuttle comes at a different time, people get on, people get off, but there's always another shuttle so I'm not in such a hurry to get on. I'm still here. And, alas, here comes another shuttle!
Things. are just. a pattern.
Guichanaso.
