I want to start this again.

I had to stop, just for a little (a long?) while, because things were spinning out of control. Other people can't make you feel like this.

Like the rain and the apple juice?

I was going to wait for my own domain, but that'll be a little while in coming. I have to build things slowly.

I write in a scribbler a lot these days. Ostensibly for creative writing. Nothing important. At least on the surface. Waves, gathering and shrinking. Except to me. Pez witch and long white cigarettes. Bottling memories in dirty flasks, corking them with leftover cylinders of wood.

I got a letter from him (isn't there always a him?). Apologizing. Saying he understood if I didn't want to write him again. So I immediately scrawled a four page forgiving epistle. Telling him too much again. Starting the whole cycle one more time.

The next morning I got up and took the letter out of the mailbox.

I have better people to confess to. (A confessional, a metal grille, a cross in my hand, I'm not Catholic)

And my box of secrets, this time, stays closed to him.

P.S. It's good to be back.