I didn't sleep. I didn't doze, I didn't even lie down; I haven't watched the sunrise in, shit, I have no idea how long. It's almost as if the fireworks ignited the clouds, to burn while the rest of you were asleep, and the embers just now dying and turning pink in the sun. The tea I just finished had no caffeine. I didn't even try to stay awake, I had no intention to. My eyes are dry. I had nothing to accomplish, or nothing I thought I did.

She didn't stay the night like I planned. Not like I care, not really. In fact, hardly anything happened at all. Sometimes chemicals just don't react.

But, her - the other her - I tried to write something for her. When was the last time that she knew who I was? I ask myself if she would want me now, now that I'm different, and we're more similar. No, probably not; even if she didn't know me from before. All those little mistakes and assumptions and miscalculations culminated to my impatience, my emotion guided by selfishness, my in ability to understand another's emotions in their own context. And I don't think I could ever blame her for not getting over that, not being able to reconcile that which defined me with what I now value. After I finished a few lines I threw it all away. I couldn't expect her to disassociate her own perception from that of myself, it would ask too much, and I wouldn't want to confuse her anymore. It's better if the story dies in obscurity. That's how we really want the story to end; symmetry in its own right is dissymmetry for that reason, and thus keeps things interesting. I stared to tell her that she didn't have to write back, and as long as I didn't know if she read it I would feel like she had listened. I asked if she had ever felt profoundly stupidly embarrassed. But I didn't get much further. I didn't say I could've loved her.

Sometimes we just don't get mixed in the right way - or maybe one of us just thinks that, because he wanted it so bad, and he hopes that things would've been different, just if. Everyone knows he's wrong.

I wonder what she would think if she knew she kept me up all night.

It's odd to think of it as night and day. We're just on a rock, and it's spinning. Why should we put labels, and perception, on it; it's just a continuos line, we don't need a break or a beginning, nothing goes up or down.

She's not quite the way I remember her - we're back to her, the first her - from just a few weeks ago, when I met her. Not quite like the pictures I've been keeping either. It's obvious what she wants but is too afraid to act so quickly. "Awkward" is overused - it's just uncomfortable, uneasy, like we aren't close enough to make the idle conversation that neither of us are able to conjure, but filling our time with sex and play seems a touch premature. She is the embodiment of mediocracy, indecisiveness, the childish indifference and apathy that mirrors my own; that's really why I hate her I suppose. Just fuck her and get it over with.

At least I know I have love elsewhere.

It gets light relatively quickly. This is the first morning I recall that I haven't been groggy for. I don't think there's ever been a more profound of a morning. Of course, that's a silly thing to say.