I Think About You All The Time

You're such a pretty girl, don't you know. There you are, out on the dance floor, laughing and having a great time. Meanwhile, I'm standing next to the folded up bleachers with a glass of punch in my hand trying to think of what I can say to you that won't result in a look somewhere between confusion and disgust cropping up on your face when I approach you.

I've written you volumes. Of course, they're volumes of jumbled incoherent nonsense that any editor would balk at and exist almost entirely on the cutting room floor of my mind - but really... I think about you all the time. Composing is probably more accurate, but it feels like writing.

I'm here. I'm alive. Please give a shit.

That's the general overall theme. The specifics could be broken up into chapters, but essentially that's what they all boil down to.

The Signal to Noise Ratio
These days, it seems that's the important part. What's signal to you? What's noise to you? It's quite the challenge figuring out which is which when I know so little about you. You're a mystery to me. 

I'm trapped you see. Stuck in this ugly bag of mostly water, currently located in Las Vegas, Nevada, planet Earth. It has arms, legs, and what I consider to be pretty blue eyes. How am I supposed to know what's signal to you from inside this contraption? 

Atoms, aren't we all?
It is said that no man is an island. Doesn't that really mean that we don't exist in a vacuum? Maybe the atom is a better comparison. Personal space as what's between our nucleus and our the outer reaches of our electron cloud. Through our interpersonal networks we can form molecules. Perhaps a man with two wives is like a water molecule.

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