Havana House

14908 - the number of days until my statistically-predicted demise. Until then...I'm here and located elsewhere.

I have traveled recently, accepting from others what they'll give me, hesitating to give more than myself.

I don't know what to say anymore, having lost something somewhere not too long ago. My thoughts taper off, my...

I am myself, no one else and nothing more or less. Words - symbols of my thoughts and other actions. What are these words doing here? I don't know. I step forward and the world moves with me. I can see those events with my eyes.

Commerce no longer holds my sway. Conversation no longer holds my say. I am rich beyond words and poor beyond thought.

I can record activities, journaling or blogging like a good diarist but is diarrhea of the fingers what I want to be remembered for? And who shall remember me? Memories are but wisps of chemical compositions momentarily forming and scattering. I shall see no texts or revive no memories after I'm gone.

My dreams arrive in my waking, fading quickly, bleached by the light of day and the opening of my eyes, understimulating and overstimulated.

I've reached my goals and wander. I wandered while reaching my goals. I have no hunger, no burning desire. Suddenly, I'm old.