May 28
I haven't written much, I don't know exactly how much time has passed.
But I still constantly sit on that couch near the wall, looking at the bottles of liquor that my father still collects, and I think.
I think about every stranger who has ever read what I've written, I think about what it meant to them, if they also imagine the situation I'm in or if they find themselves thinking about this network-driven interaction.
I look back at every soul I've ever interacted with, whether I knew them by name or username, and somehow I keep them in my memory.
Whether connected by glances, or electrical cables.
I inherited the bad habit of collecting from my father, we ain't that different.
