neuroticism pony I've never wanted to be asked what I mean. But I will tell you, if only you'll stop listening first. Everything written is a word to convince myself, a reality not yet shaken loose, or a sense not yet made clear. I carry a proverbial red pen in my mind's imaginary hand, correcting and course correcting, violently slashing any page I lay ink to: photographic or pressed pulp, physical or digital, all is marred with self reflection and blood. Please do not ask what I mean, for I hardly know yet, and by the time I figure it out, I'll most assuredly be gone. 240303 what's it to you? who go blather from