Disquiet.

00:01 AM

On the eve of the day that is today, I happened to pass out rather uncharacteristically at 8 P.M., and woke up right now with the faint realization, that there aren't going to be any sarcastic messages or crisp phone calls at midnight that I would conveniently wince at, ignore, and then forget all about. One, after all, doesn't get that lucky every year, and it's small pleasures we live by. Sure enough, there were none.

And then I dragged myself to this wheezing old reminder of a computer seated on a creaky old reminder of a work-desk, and typed this message. Because like Hemingway advises, one should write drunk, and edit sober. But I never like to leave room for editing. What I have for you, is all of me... unedited. With the erratic margins, errant aligning, and odd handwritten pages- crossings and omissions intact.

After a long time, things have changed. For better or worse, I'm not sure. Because I need to see you, and talk to you. Because I don't know where this is going to take me, a short while from now. Because I miss doing this, and I just might miss it more. Because this just might make you feel the way I want to. Before it's too late.