17 minutes

Just seventeen good minutes, unceremoniously interrupted, and I can't help but feel purposely cheated by the near-hour that followed. And I could have talked to you for days, keeping you up until you fell asleep with that sweet smile that always gives me butterflies. Unfortunate the situation, yes, but never mundane. I wouldn't mind a little privacy, however. Imaginary hotel room scenario inserted here.

Funny how I watched your enthusiasm fall. He's like a having a child sometimes, I know, a desperate need for attention that doesn't quite mask some ulterior intention.

At the moment, I'm reading a book called "The Hawk and the Dove," which is a WWII memoir that details a young man's experiences maturing in Okinawa and Korea in combat and during the occupation at the end of the war. He describes the dissonance that exists between himself and normal life after returning home, the strange contrast between a structured life filled with excitement and emotional suppression, to the pandering whimsy of everyday life. So inconsequential, and left to collapse under the weight of what no man should ever live through. It doesn't make it hard to see why a large portion of today's homeless are war veterans, fallen through the cracks. Can't help but ignite the activist in me.

A cat has nestled itself on my shins. Silent night. Sleep is like the light at the end of the tunnel, but once in I am content to crawl around in the shadows for a while, exploring what my eyes don't see.