stuff happened and i went places and did things and thought about the places and things and came to conclusions, i guess.  i guess.  so why do i feel so stale and empty?  i’ve thought of all sorts of things to write, like about my trip to dallas yesterday to visit billy and others, or about how tea bags must be infinitely more difficult to read than tea leaves, or about how sometimes i can figure people out and sometimes they shock me, or about how i’m always hungry and always tired and always, always just a little bit lonely.  but it’s all stuck in my throat or, because i’m typing, somewhere in the bones of my wrists.