it wasn't a good idea

it had to dwell in the nonsense. there was nothing else to it. how time has been keeping us was pointless. it revolved around the unimportant. it had to and it did last night. it was more of in us than to us, for it could have ended in any way and in any time and it wouldn't matter, would it? it was a game of chess unending and the only thing left to do is try and play. whether it was the piecing of the puzzle that mattered or the vague knowledge of two people sitting on wooden stools that faced the other. it drove us past where we last stood and picked up somewhere we do not know. your insatiable passion for fending the only means to make some truth did not bother me. it was expected of you and perhaps it was necessary. whether the letters created pictures in our heads or made sense the way they usually do. and whetehr it was blank, full or half empty, it served me the same. see the truth about it is that there's no truth that can come to it. it occured to me again that we had spoken more in ourselves rathewr than to each other. to others i pick up from where we have ended, but to you i pick up from somewhere maybe you only know. it was tommorow and it was last night. what we say of each other wouldn't matter for they will be forgotten. the mights and what would have become of us wouldn't matter because we're tired of thinking about them. there's happiness to haunt and bind us then.