They were clouds in my coffee.

The thing I love about breakfast foods is everything.

And he whispered fear is logical.

(This is voyeuristic, I know, so I apologize, but) someone I know told another I know that everything they do matters.

This is true. Every single one is helping us find our meaning in everything they do. It should be given well then, I think, since you are so valuable. But there are people shaking hands, or sitting down, or having tea, these things sometimes conducted towards an unknown rhythm that no one dares to sing. Pretending, but pretending not to be.

This is what cities are made of, it seems. But now I'll always sit insistent on finding the nothingness beneath whatever it is that's covering up. That nothingness is real, and its meaning, though quickly pulled into shadows, is always there to be seen. If there are objects, actions, expressions, even if evasive, there is meaning beneath them (and I apologize, you know, the original statement made by someone I know to another I know did not have the same context as this).

The conventions and humdrum routine.

There are some things that have been making me feel uncomfortable.

One of them, photography. Not in general, no, but the kind where a person is deliberately separating themself from the moment with a machine--in order to capture and remember the moment they are separating themselves from. Like a person who holds their camera up during a wonderful concert performance. Or that person who is constantly taking pictures throughout a night spent with friends.

Another of them, extensions. People who wear fake hair. Think about it. Glued on, you have a chunk of hair that is not yours hanging from your head.

Then again, pants are something also bizarre if you look at them a certain way.

What one regards as interruptions.

This has been one of those times.

Transitions, you know, and in all the facets, as is said. Transfiguration of the involuntary sort, where the only reason you feel yourself changing is because the change is not only happening around you, it is happening at you. And you have to change because it has all already happened.

You can not quite call it the edge of something new, as if it were a clean change, because you are still so vested in that past state or that old hope that does not any longer exist. So you wonder, then, in this time, what part of you is it that does. You feel against you these differing atmospheres before you and behind you, and you want to turn to neither but cannot turn away either, and you wonder where you exist. In your outdated mind, or in your new world.

The trouble with time.