  I was thinking about going to bed. In fact, I've been in bed since about seven o'clock this evening. Then I decided that I should write. So I tried to write. I stared at this God damned blogger page for an hour, while idly talking to Robyn and Phaedra. They're typing, expending energy to communicate with me, and I feel guilty that I can't give all of myself back to them, but my mind is elsewhere. Nowhere in particular, really, just elsewhere. Really though, isn't that the story of our lives? So many of us are restless, waiting for an excuse to be elsewhere. Nowhere in particular, really, anywhere but where we're at. If you could relocate, just be anywhere, where would you be? I think I would choose Nebraska.
Or Witchita, I've always like the sound of Witchita. Maybe even as far south as Texas. It's of little consequence, as I said, elsewhere. It's not that I want to be in Texas or Witchita, i just don't want to be here. What I wouldn't give to just get in the car, change my name to Tobias, and drive, with camera or pen or both in hand. Maybe a girl named Sarah or Melody or Chastity or Sue in the passenger seat. No, sleeping in the back seat. I could wake her up every 100 miles so we could get some lemonade or some pancakes. We could live on the third floor of an aging apartment building in the middle of the city and she could fall asleep in my arms on the couch in the middle of the afternoon.
But after a while, Sarah or Melody or Chastity or Sue would leave, because it's what people do these days. We all crave change, and eventually, the sex would get old or one of use would develop a drug or drinking problem, and those days would be gone. She would get the apartment, and I would be alone again, sitting outside H & R Block, posting to my blog via the wireless internet connection that I stumbled accross.
And just like now, I'd be screaming for someone to take me away from here. That's why I write. That's why we write. To be heard. Stephen Boissoin once asked me why I write. After telling him I didn't know, he told me why he writes. "To get a reaction". I pondered it carefully, and silently nodded my head. I think that is the second last conversation I ever had with the controversial Stephen Boissoin. Stephen Boissoin has nothing to do with this entry. Why though. Why write? I will die, and you will die. We will all change and drift away, and then eventually, we will die. How many of you will be at my funeral?
Two? Three? If I'm lucky. We are all alone in this. A depressing, yet very accurate truth. And after I'm gone and you're gone, who will this matter to? When the end of time is upon the world, what will it matter if I wrote or not? What will it matter if I ever got to Witchita or not? It won't. And so, I will stay here, in bed. And sleep. Not because I am tired, but because I simply don't want to be awake anymore. 
