Everything might be a work of fiction. This is fiction.
Let me drop the bomb. You are drifting away. More than spectacles, you need more sorts of sensory aid. Include another for hearing. And another perhaps for feeling. Feeling aid. Sounds gay. Like art. Art is gay. Gay is where everything started, as far as I can remember. That was the day when three events are set on the same day. GAY is a three-letter word. So is ART. ART is GAY. This post is gay. That day is gay. Your nickname is gay. Your nickname is a three-letter name. Your name sounds like some gay fuck I know and I hate. But I don't hate you. Well, not that much. I don't hate anyone. Not as much as I hate some people. Anyway, three events on the third, A-R-T, G-A-Y, *-*-*, and where were we?
Let me tell you where. You were already there. I dropped by Ishmael's exhibit and Miranda's premiere, then I went where you are, though I neither know nor care whether you are there or not. I never knew you. Nor did I expect you. We were not even introduced, as far as my selective memory remembers. You went home early and I walked
you with your friends and you to the street where you are to take your ride home or to your friends' home. I am not quite sure when our network cables latched, but I am certain that I did the addition thing but you were the one who said something about a post that later resulted into a threaded exchanges of art talk, with subtle hints of my prying and your deflecting or averting or warding off. You never talked about what I am trying to get into.
Let me elaborate and reiterate: [vii][ vi][ v][ iv][iii][ ii][ i]. I think I would not lose anything by my slamming this subjective truths to your face. I do not think you would lose anything, as well. As you have told me, nothing would ever disturb you. I promised to tell you something disturbing but I am not ready to tell you yet, remember? This is it. As promised.
Let me keep this final post short (o r'lyeh?) and end this series by sending a message linking you to this post. You still seem to drift away. I hope no damage is inflicted. I do not expect any damage to be inflicted. Had there been any scratch, someone would be there to nurse however deep whatever wound you would suffer. And, no, that someone would not be-- And, no, it does not matter if-- Nothing matters these days anymore. Everything I have told anyone does not matter. Even the jesting exclamation of emotionless joy sent via electronic communication a while ago after knowing that our spectacles are of the same blur matters not.