"Used To Dream Of Time Machines."

I don't really communicate with anyone anymore. Sitting here alone, trying to resist the whiskey on the upper shelf, I realize how alone I am. Not that I'm lonely; I am perfectly okay with being here, looking outside at some dead, Iowa cornfield. It's just that I used to be so much closer to so many people.

I know it's part of growing up. Jobs, and significant others, and degrees, and budgets. It just doesn't make sense sometimes, how certain people knew me so well, and now they don't know me well at all. Friends I listened to Bright Eyes with, they seem to all have come and left. I tie myself to distant memories by the words I wish I could create. I remember when I first really, really got into them- I was still reading Gossip Girl novels in my old bedroom, not that that would tell one much. Conor played in the Netherlands once, at a Literary festival- my friend, he called me up, let Monsters Of Folk sing songs to my voicemail. Sometimes I wish we could speak again, if only for a second. Just to see how he is, how's the dog, how's the weather? And will that wedding, will it be just the way I dreamt?

I have distanced myself from the world I once knew- and she has distanced me from herself. Cocaine dreams and lousy things; wanting to be a princess but I just could not. Mary had a little lamb, but her fleece it wasn't so pure. My friend and I used to play Digital Ash on repeat, he's almost living next door. His daughter she's about a month now, but I couldn't tell you what she looks like, or the color of her eyes. I'd rather hide inside.

Friends leave and hurt, and lovers cheat and curse. And it seems so much easier to be closer to a rock star, who you know you'll never meet. One night, I did but I had too many watermelon drinks. Took pictures in his living room, fish bowl eyes on the outside. Thinking about that today, on the long repetitive drive. How many girls are lucky enough to meet their favorite musician? See his house, not just from a distance?

See, I don't communicate much- I've got a journal, a best friend, my dad, my music-filled nights, a few somethings else. I don't see anyone- I just linger about the way it was. I guess that's as romantic as it will be; things never stay the same you know. I'm here alone writing stupid, silly things. It seems as though there aren't many other places I'd rather be.

All my friends, I don't know where they've gone. Some have moved, some haven't moved at all. Lost contacts in a web of indecision. Earlier nights, no more drunken drives. The way we kissed, just enough times to make it count. I wonder about it, about them, about it all. The history I've written, the future I'm writing; how long the present will keep its presence. How many more cycles of friends? Dreams lost and forgotten. You see, we never really talk much. Some of you, I don't like you at all. You've still made me who I am though, and there's not really anyone I'd rather be.