Women drive me mad.

Why they are here is beyond me.

To fight over that guy? Really? Him?

He talks as if he is the soul historian of science.

And won't allow for their breathing, let alone thoughts expressed.

LAN

Early morning nose dives make me tired and lonely. You're in the other room, but entirely LAN. Disconnected from the cable lines I've been running since forever. I just want to be electrified. You flatlined over two hours ago. 

Excuse me, Miss

To hear the rumble of the laundry machine
and the whispers of girls talking of basic biology and mathematics
is strange to me. Very strange.
I am constantly questioned for small things:

"Can I ask Emily a question?" or
"May I go to the bathroom?" or even
"I just can't do maths, Miss. You any good?"

I feel like a stretch of landscape being viewed by an old short-sighted man.
You know the ones, that have seen it all.
They see the grass, and feel the dirt and stinging ants bite at their toes.
They only feel the extremes: the heat and the freeze, and all of it is as grey as late autumn.
And the building around them collapses, but they're still staring..
With this gaze that seems almost absent and I'm wondering whether they are viewing it at all.
Really absorbing it. Or even achieving surface-comprehension.

It's interesting that when making comparisons to the experience of the young, I creating skirting analogies from the opposite ends of life. They say that I am young. But the young have made me a landscape so extensive, that I'm not sure who can paint it's fine background detail. I am no artist.