As I mentioned, some of the things she talks about, I understand, but most of it goes over my head. It’s like she’s speaking a foreign language. Here and there, I grasp certain words. Specific phrases; titbits of information I’m already acquainted with. For the most part, though, it’s more about the feeling than it is the meaning. I guess that goes for life in general. My life that is. Perhaps for others too, but not the ones I rub shoulders with. They’re all too busy chasing one another’s tails. I don’t have much of an interest in the mechanics of conversation or the way things work. The way things work bores me. Partly because my brain wasn’t designed to comprehend such things, and because I just don’t find them interesting. Function is as dull as fucking without love as far as I’m concerned. It’s always been about what stirs my soul. It’s weird, isn’t it? I consider myself an atheist, and yet I believe I’m in possession of a soul. I also believe my girlfriend talks to her deceased father while she sleeps. And that I can hear him speaking to her in the sound of wind chimes. Most people say I’m mad. I guess that’s why I chose to pick up a pen. If I didn’t write down all this stuff, I’d grow madder still, until one day, I’d imploded and turn into a black hole. Really, though, I didn’t choose anything. None of us are truly free to make such choices. We think we are, but it’s all an illusion perpetuated by those with power to keep us in check. All we get is the chance to understand the reasons why. That’s how I see it, anyway. Even though I’m in my thirties, I see life through the eyes of a child. Meeko does, too. Those who view it through an adult lens are pretty much dead already. They’re like nuggets of shit in a toilet bowl; they stick around and linger, and yet nuggets of shit are all they’ll ever be whether they like it or not.