Olive Whiskers and the Sludge Bucket

There is a moment that I seem to have experienced after the first good moments with the Mad Scientist, and the Lost Boy, and now Picasso.

It seeps in on the drive home, sits with me on the bed when I'm peeling off my shoes, and adds to the grit of a late night past.

Its the feeling of nothing at all. I have learned through my own stumbles to cherish detachment like a future distant memory. With apathy comes no pain, no sitting too long in the shower, no driving home with the same song on repeat.

What is most frustrating this time around is that there's not even enough time to get to that point.

I like him. He's shy and unusual and makes me blink before he does. Picasso is someone that could replace Lovely's namesake with his own and might even want to.

He's wonderful.

And I'm leaving.

I'll be back, but if Lovely taught me anything, its that it is never the same.

Living in two different worlds forever christens me as a visitor, and it kills me how in order to keep up in one universe, I get forgotten in the other.

They are not the ghosts.

I am.

Perhaps I am simply haunting myself.