Between my slumber I try to behold and understand a factory of infinite resource. It takes practice, and gives back much more than I happen to put in. She is the president of operations, without her the machine would be useless and pointless. I remember the sun, and how it once played upon her skin while we were young. So much has passed having more important things to attend to. I don't need to pretend that I care, when everyone seems to expect so much of me. There is a lot less that I am currently capable of, as time apart has made me an older version of myself. I don't know if I will ever go back there, to where times are young and simple, for the flow has a way of pulling me back out again. This is the cost of learning of how to build buildings by yourself, you stubborn child. Our only regret is not knowing how to do it in the first place. My life is a sentence of appropriate length, being careful to make sense and not repeat mistakes for the sake of getting the point across. She is good, better than she lets on and lets herself believe, because if she didn't try so hard then she would surely lose it all. When I came to my feelings they had already been dashed and dotted, fixed and painted, to hide the scars or the memory. I'm sorry for being so cold and fake, for not letting the light mix with the air and so naturally become a better half of everything else. This time will be different, if only it doesn't take as long or longer to get back to where we started, before the page turned more black than words will show.
I'm sorry about the lighter.
The explosive was unintentional.
It was leaking gas and I had to get rid of it.
