...2 years later

okay, so it has officially been 2 years since my last entry. The humidity has reached a breaking point on my body. I don't know how long I can last out here. I need something to bring my brain back to the ground, something to trigger me out of my near loss of depth which is clutching reality. That something becomes the faint sound of a train, similar to that of the H-town line which roared through my childhood. Bold yet innocent. Just enough for a child to get a glimpse of future dangers. All reminiscent of the time spent as youngsters eagerly learning to be worldly, yet sheltered. The sound, albeit faint, gives me hope for life. A cause for remaining on this Earth and procuring my ability to be. My brain tries to work in cycles just to keep up with itself. I feel regret and sorrow for the lack of spontaneity, lack of will, and lack of lust which is life. I feel ampid druidism for those that suffer due to this. F that. I suppose I was just writing a book there. Why not write a book you ask (really it is me that asks, because you aren't asking. Are you? But rather being prompted by the words I write - thus prompting you to say why not and then a close parenthesis question mark)? Exactly, I should write a book. Thanks for saying so. At what expense do I lose? None until the final production costs come to a head. If I do this on my spare time than all of the brilliance can be created at no cost (quick side note, why do others take time off or rather have the writing of a book be their occupation when they can probably secure a full time job and write on the side? I suppose until I do that I won't know, but there must be a reason. Can you imagine sitting there every day saying stuff like, "Rolando jumped at the chance to spark a conversation with Julia. A conversation which was right there, so right there he could imagine it occurring, yet also so far away he could not open his own mouth to start the words. His dry palate was also sticky. Annoyingly stickily making his mouth slap. Working up this nerve was more than he could produce. Nerves ran shot, ability ran cold. He looked at her. Lovingly, yet sick. She had obvious robust lips, red, and a look on her non-stressed face which showed a profound view longing to be heard. Her only flaw was a small birthmark on her left cheek, leaving most one-time viewers intrigued and horny. As she sat there in the train car watching the sites cross her window, Rolando watched unbeknownced to her. A locus sound came through the window such that a normal human would not notice - fading off into the sound that is white noise to most. Rolando thought for a minute, why does this train have open windows? Then his thought vanished as quickly as it crossed his mind. His vantage point was Julia's daze, her face, her innocence and her cheek imperfection. The daze in Julia's mind created an unnoticeable Rolando. The situation benefited both parties. Both stared at their own beauties, each different and each subtle. Although Rolando's beauty was making his heart race like an amateur Rhinoceros hunter approaching his first kill. While Julia's beauty was passing by in a blaze. She sat in her stare-like daze, unknowing of her stalker looming in the hall, unknowing of the emotion that raged in Rolando's heart, unknowing of the doom that would eventually proceed her death. Julia stood up from her seat and was met with a fist across her temple. Rolando struck the beauty with care thrusting her onto the floor. Her perception was not gone rather emotions flew and she wondered why. She looked up at her attacker. She felt a stream of blood burrowing beneath her skull. Rolando freed the train seat from it's barrings and raised it above his head. His next motion seemed to last a day, slowly he triggered his arms to bash the seat across his beauty, sending her neck and head into a non-human position against the wall. Red covered everything. Her eyelids closed and her foot moved slightly on the floor. Rolando gave one last push of effort into bashing her head into the surrounding blood covered floor. At what point do stories become real? This one is obviously made up close parenthesis).