For You: This

The days this week have started to blur together. Coming home at 3:30 am in the morning has become expected, and I no longer have to explain myself to our baffled hosts as I come waltzing through the door in the wee hours.

"What were you doing out so late?" "Why are you carrying that glue gun?" "Who are you?"

Good questions, all. Those what-why-where's have been plaguing me internally as well. What am I doing?

Well, it's akin to vomiting. Stuff is coming out of me. Colorful, interesting things, though I don't remember eating any of it. And it's all for you. So it's more like a bird regurgitating food for her young. The food goes inside, gets changed, and then comes back to you in a more palatable form. That's kind of what I'm doing for you, encoding thoughts and words into a new format for you to absorb.

But how can I even be sure you'll digest it in this form? Who's to say you won't be equally baffled by what you take in. What if you choke?

Horrible thoughts raining down on me now. Doubts, mostly. People keep talking about ghosts in recent days. Uncanny coincidence, but I'm guessing it's the weather playing havoc with our minds, affecting our dreams. Some nights I get pretty creeped-out working here by myself. There's something terrifying about abandoned interior voids. Mark that one up to primal instinct: "What sort of unholy terror makes its dwelling in this cave? Let's go hit it with a rock!"

Eyes dart back into endless space every few moments, scanning the darkness. The tingling sensation of being watched while I work. Every far-off noise amplified. And yet this is where I am most comfortable. Away from people, the din of life. Here is where I can see everything connecting us. And despite the distance between us, it's like you're right here with me.

you're coming, right?