I have this irrational itch to express some form of identity or meaning. I feel like this itch is just half way up my back and I can't reach it. Maybe I need someone to scratch this for me. Or, I could jump on some analytical tool/theory/truth and use that as a back-scratcher.

Wait this analogy doesn't really work because I am flexible enough to reach around every part of my back.

But anyway. I leave at midnight and through out my journey into the crisp silent night, I find my eyes drawn to my feet. As if a heavy burden rested above my brows. White on black and pink on white, I watch my steps and forget to look into your eyes and at my hands. I am fascinated by the interplay between the bright shoe-shape and the stark grey grids, I forget to look into your eyes and at my hands.

I reach the busloop at 12.38, only to discover that the next bus was leaving at 1.01. Dammit. So I sit down on the concrete roadblocks in front of the idle number 17 and stare at UBC's uninspiring buildings. She tells me again that I never get gritty on myself, as she did 6 years before.

So I peel away Radiohead from my ears and sit. I sit. I walk into myself and start to look around - what is this? And then Volley-ball boy walks right out of A&F land and strikes up a conversation. I never turn people away.

But I do need silence.