I put my hands away.

I think I wasn't made for this world--the 9-5, the in-out-in-out and the litany of lethargic days that blend together to form thirty years of your life.

"Well, then, start writing, asshole."

Yea, I wish it was that easy. I've been postponing it. I'm lazy. I'm big on laziness. Because I'm afraid of commitment in the strangest, inopportune ways.

Dear Kaitlyn, I think I was afraid of what I told you I was afraid of because I find myself running stalwart parallels with the protagonist from High Fidelity. Records, pop music, misery, trials of love and seperation... And that was exemplified by the relationship I was afraid ours would turn into. But that was long ago, I'm afraid.

Here is your beginning:

"Gone all starry eyed, he awoke in a stupor. Believability is fallability. He too often thought in aphorisms instead of textures or shapes. Pithy statements are, if you were to give a shape, round at best. Spherical and applicable to far too many people to be one person's thoughts. But that's what they were: rounded off at the edges and severely altruistic. He had no character and he suffered because of it. He was white as snow in dress and complexion. He seemed to walk in a daze, sifting through doorways as if he were the sand among gold dust, going on without any sort of color or complication.

"Until she arrived..."

I'm intrigued. But then my obvious pessimism plays into my ontology: why is she arriving? Are we going to have another stupid romantic comedy on our hands? Is tragedy all I'm good for?

Oh, the ending to that beginning is that he kills himself. She finds him surrounded by a pool of what looks like white paint, but it's really his blood. Upon closer inspection, it's more like infected milk, because specks of she (her color being a deep, deep, sodomizing green) within his blood.

She is never heard from again. And the color is removed from the wheel.

I believe in you.