i thought i forgot how to open these text files and put words to them; this is a distant version of myself that feels shockingly like a stranger. but, if i close my eyes and feel the keyboard under my hands, it is as if i am reaching back to that person so i can tell them, yes, i'm still here. we're still here. we're still trying.

a cricket echoes in the garage. old LED lights buzz overhead. i need to buy more storage space for my data. i don't know what to do with all of this data.

somehow, writing this and intending to post this feels too raw and exposed, and in flipping through my old posts, i want to scream and hide them all from this extremely openly public view. existing feels like a risk. documenting any part of myself feels like a risk. i can't help but do it.

22 September 2022 23:23

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