17.Oct.2002

once again, she's back

--

"my apartment number is 216," he said.

I said, "Don't. You have no idea what you're getting into."

Anyone who knows me knows that my film obsession lies primarily on Pi, and I spend a vast majority of my time searching for deeper meanings. Or rather, the patterns behind the banal numbers of existence.

216, for all intents and purposes, reflects the power yet transcience of human obsession, and how its focus blears the rest of human perception, mars absolute truth, which isolated is pure in its utmost form, otherwise fucked by interpretation. But I digress.

I cannot grasp the validity of his existence, due to some type of weirdness infecting whatever could progress, but beneath that there lies some type of connection. Perhaps it is something I hold onto from the past. He is charming when he is not being alpha-male, and charming intelligence is what I seek. He radiates a warmth I wish to attain, but for whatever reason, he stifles that around me.

Eventually there will come the inevitable point where he stumbles upon this diary, and I'll have to explain myself.

Until that moment arises, I am content with ... well ... I'm not content, but I sincerely want to be.

--

time & machine