Rabid monkeys with fancy tools

Listening to The Pixies’ ‘Where is my mind,’ I find that I miss talking to him. If he still reads my blog, he’d know immediately that I’m talking about him. So there. Step One of trying to say what I mean.
Thing is, if he could forget what happened, all that happened, if I could forget those things, then things would go back to the way they were. I don’t know if he has the same capacity for forgetting as I do. Step two: check.
Some things were never meant to happen. They should never, ever happen. Insert another ‘never’ to accentuate the severity of that sentence. Things usually go bad. I don’t know why. It’s one of those unfathomable mysteries.
I have no idea why I’m writing this. Maybe it’s an explanation that’s long overdue. Maybe I’m trying to clear my conscience. We are after all selfish creatures, aren’t we? I’m just short of saying your name here. I’m sorry that things turned out the way they did. I miss talking to you. But there’s where the missing ends.
Step three: check.

in the water, see it swimming

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