Everything might be a work of fiction. This is fiction.
After seeing the wonders of the urban jungle through your lenses that I did not even bother to borrow (yet, yes, I suppose I have seen things through them! and, no, wouldn't bother borrowing them anytime soon!), I think I am seeing things I have seen before in another light that have lit my chromatic vision just like before, i.e. in the same way in the not-so-distant past. How distant is distant anyway? And, as you have said (or I thought I heard you say! As you can see, you can never trust me with all these delusions and hallucinations and interventions in a supposedly readable and comprehensible and sensible telling of stuff that nobody, except my self, needs, for the sake of venting out excess sanity or supersanity or insanity, depending on how you look at it!), how awkward is awkward?
Before thinking what the point of this blabber is, please do consider a lot of things. Had you found this space and you think and you sincerely believe that this is about you, please remain as you are. Or, better yet, tell me what you think. For now, all I know is we are looking at the same direction though we may have different lenses. Whether that means anything does not matter. What matters most, at least for me, is: we remain as we are. Doing what we think makes us feel like conquerors of the seas of possibilites. I thought I'd like to think about it. But I'd rather not. In this particular instance, thinking might ruin everything. What am I saying? Nothing. Let us leave this and live as blurry as our vision of what things are ought to be.
Emphasis: Everything might be a work of fiction. This is fiction.