Regret is very bitter, and the bottom-far-bellow of very high places, inviting.
The ability to regret dawns...slowly, slowly, upon the world.
And one can find ones-self lying on ones roof at night, watching the stars (I swear there were a lot more when I was younger and wore funny glasses) and thinking: 'Why is Mars not visible yet? Is this secretly not August or have the astronomers lied?'
One can find ones-self in many many deep and dark silences, and under the influence of bad influence mullings.
Funny that cows are such happy seeming beasts when all they ever seem to do is chew and mull, chew and mull, chew and mull...and swat the random fly.
Which says what?
It says, if I'm resigned to all these mosquito bites I must be more aloof than a cow.


A classic Arabic/Persian (everyone including the Turks seem to be wanting to lay claim to this) story follows:

There was once a young man named Kais who fell in love with a girl named Laila, who wasn't particulalry beautiful or amazing, but this is irrelevant...or perhaps it's relevant because it says alot more about love than it would if she was beautiful. Because you see, thanks to the immortalisation of Laila & Majnun (which existed way before Romeo & Juliet, and is at a higher calibre of tale entirely) Laila has been transformed in the minds and stories of men into the embodiment of unmatched feminine beauty (so much so that according to another story a particular sultan who wished to see the legendary Laila, asks for her to be brought to him and upon laying eyes on her is shocked.
Sultan: Majnun loved you? you're not beautiful?
Laila: You are not Majnun.)

...So, Kais loved Laila, but Lail's family married their daughter off to an older, and very wealthy man. Kais, in his devastation and despair fled to the desert and went mad, hence why he was then called Majnun. Many years passed, word of the love-sick Majnun who roamed the deserts still spread far and wide, until one day, Laila's old husband died. Having been set free at last, Laila who'd heard what became of Kais, set out into the desert in search of him. When she finally found him, Majnun did not recognise her.
Majnun: Who are you?
Laila: I'm Laila.
Majnun: ...then what have I loved all of this time?

The Importance of Being like a child: or Cows and Why Not to Underestimate Any Sign. Ever.

-a rant-

There are symbolic dreams -dreams that symbolize some reality. Then there are symbolic realities -realities that symbolize a dream.
Symbols are what you might call the honorary town councillors of the worm universe. In the worm universe there is nothing unusual about a dairy cow seeking a pair of pliers. A cow is bound to get her pliers sometime. It has nothing to do with me.

Yet the fact that the cow chose me to obtain her pliers changes everything. This plunges me into a whole universe of alternative considerations. And in this universe of alternative considerations, the major problem is that everything becomes protracted and complex. I asked the cow, "Why do you want pliers?" and the cow answers, "I'm really hungry." So I ask, "Why do you need pliers if you're hungry?" The cow answers, "To attach them to branches of the peach tree." I ask, "Why a peach tree?" to which the cow replies, "Well, that's why I traded away my fan, isn't it?" and so on and so forth. The thing is never resolved, I begin to resent the cow, and the cow begins to resent me. That's a worms eye view its universe. The only way the get out of that worm universe is to dream another symbolic dream.

(Haruki Murakami- A Wild Sheep Chase)

The 'cow' and 'me' here, might as well be Khidr and Moses, the time-traveller and the prophet, me (personally) and the snail in my planter...any two individuals/entities existing in separate plains of possibility or dimensions of thought and experience, but encountering one another, for a brief moment in the same now. I feel sorry for the snail in its pitifully slimy and slow excuse of an existance, and the snail, feels sorry for me; a loud and threatening giant, apparently so busy wasting energy with sensless comings and goings, to know the colours of the different levels of silence, and the shades of every depth of peace.

Likewise, keepers of different wisdoms, the cow's motives will never make sense to me, and my motives will never make sense to the cow, because we both see and experience the universe through our own very separate yet limited vision. Hence the worms eye view.

If our human senses are only capable of experiencing less than a billionth of the material stimuli in the immediate space which surrounds us at any given moment, then in retrospect to a universe with boundless possibilities incomprehensible to any one being alone, cynisims is one of the greatest sins we commit against ourselves. As the Turkish idiom goes, What fault is it of the sun, if you're blind?

One of the Prophet's (sas) prayers went something like this: 'Allah, make me full of wonder'. And that is why Lewis Carol put Alice in Wonderland, because she was a child. So, if you find a caterpillar chasing dragons on a giant mushroom, for Gods sake, don't tell him he's not supposed to exist, that's just rude. Instead you should ask permission to partake, and who knows what many other cows with pliers you may encounter on what wondrous trips, which await to broaden our worm universes.

I wish I could surrender my soul.

Shed the clothes that become my skin,

See the liar that burns within my needing.

I wish I'd chosen darkness from cold

I wish I'd screamed out loud...

Instead I've found no meaning.

I guess it's time I run...

Far far away,

Find comfort in pain.

All pleasure's the same,

It just keeps me from trouble.

Tears and Rain, The Blunt-man.

I know now, where I get my simple minded honesty from.
The side of me which spurs from a nation of painfully and stupidly honest people.
Yesterday Huden and I were getting fresh juice form the juice man, and I said I wanted Pomegranite juice and the guy lowers his voice and goes, 'this isn't real pomegranite juice.' Moments later we are trying to buy bread and the baker goes, 'The bread's so hard, look it's like a rock! it's coz of the heat!' naturally we didn't buy bread or the pomegranite juice ...its seems honesty is more important than losing customers though. And that, I think is a beautiful trait, beneath its painful stupidity.

Yes I am in Ankara...and it is safe to say it has taken 2 days for 'Burn it up, Girl make it hot like the roof is on Fayyaaaaaa!' to stop playing itsself on repeat in my mind. Trust crazy, beautiful friends to turn a bloody goodbye into 2 nights of belly dancing. I mention not the quality time and 'moments' because I keeps special things to myself.

I cried on the plane. To which the passenger sitting next to me could only ask: 'Have you lived in America?' -Ntch, foo!
Righteeeo, the Boris within warns that this is turning self indulgent again. Lets see...do I have anything else to say without dear-diarying?
Yes.
Turkish Grandfathers are cute.
So are Turkish guys.
In different ways of course.
The former are cute in the cudly sense that makes Father Christmas look like a pedophile.
As for the latter...I'm still trying to get over the shock of this.

Philosophy of Boris.

Getting to sleep at 3:00-ish after much wide-eyed cieling-staring in darkness, and then waking up at 6:00, can drive one to mull over many a deep and dark thought.
One such deepness and darkness, as any deepness and darkness, one my encounter in the deep and dark mental pool (with water slide!) may be the deepness and darkness of thoughts of Boris.
Aided by very heavy summer rain.

As we know, Boris had lost a leg to the Second World War. When he was a dashing young blade furnished with many a medalion, he believed this was a worthwhile sacrifice, for country and honour. In time, however, the remnants of his life receeded into whisky bottles at cheap bars, to collect with the clear beads he could never get to, even if he smashed the empty bottle. And at these times, when he had no power but to broodingly watch them evaporate over long hours, did he not despise country and honour? Was he not filled with bitterness, the taste of many years of festerring and regretting?

So how does one keep the purity of ones intentions intact?
How does one remember, and never forget?
How does one remain strong in ideals, when country and honour kick you when you're down?

This here is what I paid, what I'm paying for my sins.
Make this me...and maybe then I will not hate others.
Maybe.

Did I say that I loath you.
Did I say that I want to... leave it all behind.

-Blower's Daughter : Damian Rice

Listening to: Regina Spektor.
Horrified by: The amount of weight Haido has put on.
Pissed off at: Just innit.
Sadened by: Lemony Snicket's dedications.

Otherwise, life resumes hectically in a suspenseful, cliff hanger kind of slow motion. Embracing reclusive reclusiveness once again, for want of things to tell people...the unsurity is stifling. At times like this, we flinch at things too easily. And thank God for late shifts and crazy work coleagues brandishing light sabers in the overstock room.
Aiden: (swinging it arround) It was so much cooler when we had two of these!
Elest: Aha. it's kinda damaged right.
Aiden: (Puts it away) Yes that's why it's here.
Johnathan: (walks in with books) Hey you, YOU WERE PLAYING WITH THE LIGHT SABER! (drops books and runs over to the light saber hiding place to have a go at it himself)

But all is well in the world with Boris. To him, everyone's the same. and anyone who buys him a drink is better so. In his vodka bottle swims the doubts and fears he will swallow down and urinate out in an hour or so, if he doesn't vomit them first. That is what I think of thinking twice, you twice thought, he tells the worryful wonder.

I wonder if I'm making a big mistake.

...And if there had to be something which could possibly account for this silence that is always louder than noise or words or banter, because it is so full of an absence of all that is greater and more urgent and more desperate and sad because of inexpressibility (which is a word that doesn't even exist in the English vocab because of it's sheer inexpressiblity), it would be thus:

...

And so it is, just like you said it would be.
Life goes easy on me...most of the time.
And so it is, the shorter story. No love no glory, no hero in her skies.
...
And so it is, just like you said it should be.
We'll both forget the breez...most of the time.
And so it is, the colder water, the blower's daughter, the pupil in denial.

The Blower's Daughter -Damian Rice

Hello.
How long has it been since I wrote something here? ...OH MY GOD, THE 5TH OF LAST MONTH!? wow, when Elest makes a resolution she really sticks to it eh? ..bullshit.
(look we've even started swearing here. Tauwba)

So how has Boris been since then?
Boris has been very well, thank you. He's never been better. He's been drinking more, dreaming less and falling on his face less, but drinking more...and smoking some...And sitting on the wall of The Bottle at the crossroads, holding his pint up at the cars that drive by. Every day. toasting life away.
So he's been well.

Working at Borders doesn't put one off books. Though it's very capable of putting one off bookshops. But one may grow imune to it...who knows. Time will tell. Because time knows. Time knows all, the blasted miserly thief. Actually it doesn't...it just pretends to. It's just a useless, fat, miserly thief who knows nothing, but pretends...and gets away with it.
In any case, there are few things about bookshops that may piss one off. Such a thing may be rude customers, but they may do so less so than shelving men's magazinese with gawking perverts standing about, and also coming across certain books like 'The Almond' by a certain Arab bitch (don't 'tauwba' me! She had it coming) who's written a piece trash about the sexual awakening of a repressed Muslim girl. All very erotic...and you just know the West is gonna love that. Oh yeah, we can see them wringing their hands with glee now, coz they'd already bought into the ideaology since Jacobean England started organising the world it had discoverred (I would quote out of Fletcher's Island Princess if I had an excellent memory, but I don't. You know that purrrrr-fectly well, so don't be stupid (she quotes from The Last Unicorn instead.))

In any case, if there had to be a reading list...just innit...of current reads...a reading list of no particular relevance or connection to any thing, time or person...just innit...a just-innit reading list of GOOD books, it would start thus:

Rememberring God -Charles le Gai Eaton
Wild Sheep Chanse -Haruki Murakami

...and end how, I know not yet.

I heeeeeeeaaar Viiiii-OOO-Linnnnnns

Tonight I had a realisation...nay, an epiphany (it all began arround 11:somtehing in the car park of our flats, and ended very promptly).
This is what it was:
No matter how much one tries to fool onesself or justify it, keeping a blog is self-indulgent and a tad pretentious.
-Yes. It doesn't have to start 'Dear diary' or be about Mr. Rochester to qualify as a journal. And fine, we do sometimes talk about deep and terrible things, but ultimately this blog is about me, right? And writing about me on a weekly/daily basis, is an undeniabley self-indulgent thing to be doing, right?
Right.
...
And so there was a 12th comandment after the 11th; 'don't change'. This is what it was:
Thou shalt not subject innocent cyber-space bystanders to the enterior workings of thy twisted mind, nor the mundane trivialities of thine own existence.
...
Thus, from this day forth, Elle est stoned and star gazing decided that this blog will not be about ME.
'twill be about Boris.

Some information on the origin of Boris follows:
Boris, by all accounts is a fictional figment of my father's alliteration...I mean imagination, who's never tired of trying to convince his children otherwise. Nor has he tired of offerring numerous details of said Boris's life, each more outrageous than the last. The truth is yet to be revealed, but whether or not Boris existed, it is certain that he isn't doing any such thing presently.
According to my father, Boris is dead.
You see, Boris was a one legged, Prussian, World War 2 veteran and a very good drinking buddy. After the war Boris used to suffer from very vivid dreams about getting his missing leg back, which would cause him to jump out of bed with excitment in the mornings, only to fall flat on his face.
One day, in his old age, Boris had a car accident crossing the road, and ended up losing his other leg aswell. Not long after, he dreamt that this time he had both his legs back, jumped out of the hospital bed in his usual flurry of excitment, and fell on his face again, for the last time. He died in hosptial of brain damage.

As of tonight, this is the Blog of Boris, whose story above is as my father told it to me. What follows contains the takings of numerous liberties, and fictional aditives which are not good for your health. Wathch for the 'E' numbers, and Lecitin -make sure it's soya.

...And last but not least, to comemorate this farewell to self indulgence, and hello to utter absurdity of Boris-ness, a very bold dedication to the one person I blog about least or never at all, because sometimes we don't do the things we want to do most, so people don't know we want to do them: ...

I'm your host from the Blog of Boris, good night, and farewell for now.

OWWWCH!

iT'S a bEaUTifuL daY aND i'M OWWWCHing aT HomE.
(sniffle)
I wanted to go to Hampstead Heath with Huden and Daoud.
(sniffle)
ha? nO, i dON't wAnt aNy mORe NutELla...it's made me feel sick.
...
...
(twidles thumbs)
...

Right...this calls for some productiveness which doesn't involve me having to move from my seat. ...oi, this isn't my laptop...this is Huden's...where's my laptop? Ah, I spy it under the sofa. The sofa is across the room. Do I get up and get it myself...or do a start wailing and moaning to get Saimecan to come here from the other room? Nah, I aint that shallow. ...So. Do I get up now, or do I wait for a bit? Do I do it in one sudden movement and leap across the room and back to the sofa, or do I do it very slowly? ...Oh damn, now I gotta pee.
(sniffle)
Help!

Today I saw a woman playing solitaire on her iPod.
I'm ashamed to be a part of this.

'The Matrix has you Neo' ...and it offers your mind not a moment of freedom. This is the occupation of Television screens on busses, gossip/beauty magazines (one glance at the cover of someone elses giving you an eye-full of Jordan to last you a week(...why do I even know this sorry little excuse of a woamn's name?)), PSPs, larger than life advertising blaring at you from every corner of the city in which you reside; selling you everything from looks to a life style...
And meanwhile I'm confused about my priorities when I get pissed off at the megaphone man at Picadilly Circus (now). Every man has his own wares. This one is trying to sell me a joke at the expense of religion...and oh, the degree of stigma attached to that word thanks to the likes of himself. But 'which came firts: intolerant preaching or its subject-matter?' -Tim Winters

Yet, one can find wisdom in all things.
Fast, think, wait -Hermann Hesse Sidhartha
...and adopt a state of mind, the likes of which is the iPod-ers very own. for 3 good reasons:

• Because this refuse of a world is always beautiful to the sound of music.
• Because little stinging things are easier to overlook when your mind is in ecstasy...and if they do more than just sting, then they're so much more poetic to those beats; the tragedy rings with hightened verse.
• And Because you can't hear people being stupid or mean to you...so you can't hate them. And even if you can, you still don't hate them, coz their muffled, mean little words are coming from some far off place, too below this higher plain in which you're experiencing something sublime. ...so instead you pity them, and hope that they too, will one day have an iPod in their otherwise drab and meaningless lives.

...and if you can't tell that all of this is an extended metaphore for something else, you should be ashamed of yourself. And you should sit in that corner and think very hard about it. Yes, that one. Now.

(And yes, I've editted this. so bite me, like!)

Sound: Miyavi - Itoshi hito

Over the course of the past 3 days of being 23 and more drastically changed than ever during the course of the past 23 years...this one has made two new observations, but for what use is any of it in the end? I'm one of those people who'll put great things in writing and not find it in me to live by them. Perhaps it is a lack of self worth. Perhaps it is disillusionment.

Peanut butter and powder hot choclate does not taste like a Snicker bar.
Tanzanian nut-meg-and-other-spices tea tastes great :)

...no these are not the two observations I made, you foo'!

Yesterday I met this cool Argintinian jewlery maker in Camden Town. Today I bumped into him again while I was looking for something else, found out his name is Fabrizzio (Elest: Is that an Argentinian name? Fabrizzio: No, Italian!) and that his hands are all caloused and burnt coz he makes all his jewlery himself (Fabrizzio: look. -spreads out hands proudly). His English was rubbish but he told me that: "In Argentina we have no money, no work, no food... but we have korason -heart."

The universe might be telling me again, that I need to go somewhere where human passion hasn't died yet.

'Fantasies have to be unrealistic, because the moment, the second that you get what you seek, you don't, you can't want it any more. In order to continue to exist, desire must have it's objects perpetually absent. It's not the 'it' that you want it's the fantasy of 'it'. Desire supports crazy fantasies. This is what pascal means when he says that we are only truly happy when daydreaming about future happiness. That's why we say the hunt is sweeter than the kill, or be careful what you wish for, not because you'll get it but because you're doomed to not want it once you do. The lesson of Lacan is, living by your wants will never make you happy, what it means to be fully human is to strive to live by ideas and ideals, and not to measure your life in terms of your desires but those small moments of integrity, passion, rationality, even self sacrifice...because in the end, the only way that we can measure the significance of our own lives is by valuing the lives of others.'

-The Life of David Gale-

...Because it's relevant.

Wallpaper.
I don't have a gun.
In any case though, apparently women tend to leap to their deaths, when committing suicide (La Petite Soldat - Jean Luke Godard. (No offence to those who have a special place in their hearts for the razor blade. (Ah we just love flinching at the idea. (I dare you to visualise something graphic. (No I'm not a friggin masochist, I'm a writer, and I'm trying to shock you.) So a gun wouldn't be much use then...funny though, that someone should bring that up. 'Tis true that it is feminine, but I doubt the appeal has anything to do with cowardice personally...I think the act of leaping is defined by leaping away from and leaping to. Fleeing and seeking some 'measure of release and comfort from the receiving end of the leap. It's also more impulsive, urgent and poetic in its motion...then again I can suck meaning and melancholy out of a theme park ride. Sheer nonsense. Hence my fondness of cynical, railing characters like Jaques (As You Like It- The Bard.) He tha man!...Because he is an intellect and a miserable git. In fact, I must go home and extract some quotes from the play, specifically the one about sucking melancholy, and make them mine own.

Alex, Andreus and the other loud, funny, Norwegian dude just walked into the office, in very selfconciously sharp suits and have promptly started shedding jackets and ties... Ah that's better, they're back to their usual scruffy selves now... Andreus just winked at me. He's nice...but can someone please tell me what it means when men do that? Is it ok for me to continue idiotly smiling back, as I do? I'm not being paranoid, I'm just wondering if I'm being naive.

Woohoo! Amy asked if I'd help her out with something else after lunch! I'm free of the Wallpapers! (Al)

I leave you now, for I must be off to our Beenie-spotting lunch with Shakila, who txs me that she is dying of boredom.

Miyavi love, all around.
Over and out.

Elle est starts writing.
This is what happens when yours truely gets a Royal Holloway creative writing MA rejection.
Hoola hoops man: OI, ROYAL 'OLLOWAY! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
And yet, we care not...I quote Gordon:
'Hi Elest. Stupid Holloway. What do they know? Not much, clearly.'
Yes.
We'll show 'em when 'The Violinist and Alexis Jezeabel' wins the booker, white bread, and pulitzer in every field known to man, and becomes an international, nay intergalactical best seller for the next fifteen years (and 300 light years), after which it will turn into a modern classic and some hundered years later, a classic classic!
We'll show THEM, that Davinci man what can't write to save his life, and Hollywood, who I shant be selling my rights to, thank you! (Inshallah)
Ps. Zadie Smith can kiss my hiney.
The stupid five letter 'B' word.

I leave you with Samuel Beckett:
"Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightening-conductor of his existence. Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit. Breathing is habit. Life is habit."

Yesterday afternoon I was high on sheisha.
Last night I was high on bleach.
This morning I'm high on job searches.
I'm gonna go out for a bit to get high on that SunShiiiii-iiiiiine...looks mighty fiiii-iiiine, to meeeeee-eeee!

Why do flowers grow out of little cracks and crevices, in places where no one can even see them?
Because even though.
That's why.
...
Dance to 'be' in the act of dancing. Dance in the face of an oblivion of emptiness, loneliness, sadness and your futility... in a grey, drab, refuse.
Because you are not here to have to prove yourself to the world. You are here to 'be', for one who knows you even when you are hidden. Even when you know not yourself.

There's your sign.

SunShiiiii-iiiine! Over HeeeeREEE! (with a strong Egyptian accent)
...weeehaaee! So nice.

SHIKKKT! I'M SUPPOSED TO BE TEACHING TODAY! OH MY GOD, I'D FORGOT COMPLETELY!

The glorious pod of mainstream in all its mainstream glory and glorified mainstreamness is playing:
Something -Hajime Chitose

I'm reading and writing about all these successful designers with their well established companies etc. and I'm thinking it's all bull shiKt. (with a capital 'K')
For a moment I put myself in their places and think, Jane Gordon Clark of Ornamenta, launched when I was 3 years old...I do not want to end up like you! I don't want to spend half my life, working and struggling at the same game to stay afloat, only to achieve what you have: a state of being too financially comfortable and well established to stop working at the age of...yes, you look well over 50. No offence.
I don't want to have a big massive house in the South London suburbs, and two kids in private schools ...crap, this woman's got real flower petals pressed into her wallpapers! And they're textured! This changes everything...hang on a sec while I write this down...

...Now where was I before I was so rudely interrupted by wallpaper samples? Ah yes...my uncle. South London Suburbs house. Two kids in private schools. And a chain of old people's homes.
So, we've established what we DON'T want...what do we DO want?
I don't know.
I just hope that I don't end up like these people, ia, and my kids aren't brought up pre-conditioned to the notion of fitting a certain criteria. What do I mean? Think my uncle's kids. And then think the following scenario:

Uncle: you guys have actually done really well for yourselves, getting
into the universities you've gotten into. (and you know he's thinking:
considering you're from a broken marriage, grown up in
some crap North London area, and gone to rubbish schools coz your
father never took the responsibility to ensure otherwise.)
Elest: (very pissed off) Yeah, coz we're so messed up, right?
Uncle & Aunt: Oh No! No, we didn't mean that!

Piss off. I know what you meant. My mom did a hell of a fine job bringing us up on her own, and I'm glad I never got the life your kids are getting. Right now, I'm the happiest person in the world, because I can think outside your dumb box.
Wish I'd remember it more often.
Alhamdullah.

Conclusion: Down with Jane Gordon Clark. Up with Chocolate Trufle Aero!

Ps. The weather's amazing outside!

At FRIGGIN last!
Been trying to log onto blogger for the past half hour. And now that I'm on, I forgot what I needed to say. That's just smashing. Shame on u blog! I'm gonna go take a bath, and while I'm gone, u think very hard about what you've done!

Ps. We got our windows today and the kitchen is finaly complete, Alhamdullah...
WOOHOOOO!
Pps. The Tea Building is full of loads of arty farty design companies and publishers, and likewise, lots of arty farty peoples. We are in the midst of cool, once again...possibly cooler than Think Publishing. Our boss, however, is a Canadian guy with a very gay accent, who was having a huge row with some press person this afternoon, so that the entire office fell silent to listen intensely. After which everyone started gossiping about him.
With the boss asside though, I've spent my day writing about something which is so absurdly random in it's sheer mundane boringness, 'twill blow thy mind away...(drum roll) WALLPAPER! Tada!
Now, you're thinking said task is probably as interresting as a life support machine. You're thinking wrong... researching tea-total football heroes was worse. Not to mention, I get to look at lots of pretty pictures. :)
Ppss. My father is in London this weekend.
Pppss. I feel the need to dye my hair again. Red or Pink?

Last night while Elle est star gazer was moon gazing outside her flat, some black guy asked her if she was ok...
Elest: Yes, thanks.
Black guy: I thought you were crying.
Elest: No, I was looking at the moon.
Black guy: The moon. (looks up) oh. What do you call that, a half moon?
Elest: yeah. (thinks: you fool, it's a crescent!)
Black guy: Where are you from?
Elest: (thinks: it's a bit more complicated than that.) Turkey.
Black guy: In London people don't see the moon much.

Now, you think he said that coz he was thinking the only thing that can justify my sheer weirdness would have to be the utter ailenness of my ethnic background.
I like to think he said that coz he was trying to say something. ;)

Elest, are you worried about something?
Can you tell?
...
Does it matter? In the long run, against the bigger picture of things, does it bear any significance at all, when those close to you, can't even care?
We're so lonely. What does it matter if we were just that much lonelier?
I'm only saying all of this now to put off facing it. I swear I don't mean a word of it...yet.