I always figured when it was time to set this all down on paper, I'd just write. I figured it would form itself in the process and the only work I would put forth would be the will to sit in front of the computer and type it. Now that I've exerted some of that will, I realise it should take a lot more. It should take planning, character development, thoughtful word choice, and sentences laboured on for hours until they achieve perfect, petite perfection. I say nuts to that.
	Time and time again, I'm told how stories and books are supposed to transport you to another time, another place. You're supposed to become so emerged in the world of the story that you lose bearing on the real world and float adrift in this magical land, crying and laughing as your heart deems fit. That's all fine and wonderful, but I can't help but notice that I do not exist. At least, I don't exist in this fantasy world, if I exist. So I opt, instead, to take the course prescribed abound by gradeschool teachers with stern, bad teeth, and wrinkles, the old matronry, too old to be fired, too poor to quit — writing about what I know. Even at an early age, this struck me as somewhat funny - do I really know anything? But lately, I've decided that I'm pretty sure I know that I don't know anything, and that's good enough for me. So, what am I supposed to write about? I shall write about being pretty sure I know nothing.
	Would a blank page not suffice?
	Could I not sum up all the complications and complexities of such bleak wisdom with a blank page?


	Movies have happy endings.
	Movies end before they've even started.
	If a movie starts off sad,
	can it still end happily?

	The start should always begin with an ending, I think.
	What is the ending to my start? Is it a happy ending, is it a sad start? Does the middle travel in spits and spurts, a wounded soul, a broken heart? Here, there, everywhere, the misery of human existence! Come one, come all! My self-righteous artistic exposse on human suffering!
		—or perhaps, it will end as all things end, as I'm pretty sure I know I don't know they end... they keep on going. and going, and going. 
	So it happens, I suppose, that an end really is a beginning - or a middle - and to draw these ambiguous lines is but comfort factor, or a means of cataloguing. Displaying information in an easy to read manner. Lesson 1, Chapter 1, we haven't got all day.
		we have all the time in the world.
			(is that a moment? less? tune in next time...)
	We strive to chop up our life into pretty little cubes, perfect for storage, and promptly forget where we put them. Occasionally, we gift-wrap parts of ourselves with ribbons so neat and present them to the closest of our confidants - it's not as if we were using them, anyway.

	I am pretty sure I know I don't know this, but I could be right.

>>>NEXT TIME!
	Time is a fascinating vehicle, if only because one can never be positive as to where it's headed, where it's come from, or if indeed it's traveling at all! The only moment I'm pretty sure I know I don't know exists is the present - and even that is a subject of much dispute. Past and future, and future-past and past-future, and all those other times, effectively do not exist, and perhaps actually don't exist. You could be forever trapped in this moment, and all memories are magically imbued at this moment, and time is at a stand still - it is a possibility. 
		They tell me, time and time again, that the universe is expanding, and it will probably one day close back in on itself. As the universe expands, time is supposed to travel forward, but when it contracts, time will travel backward—at least, that's what 'they' tell me. So I says to them, I says: "If it's all gonna go backwards, how do we know it's not headin' on back right now, and we just think we're travelin' forward?" And they told me they don't.
			I figure if they don't know which way their theory's headed, I might as well take time to be going in which ever direction I please.
				My time untravels sideways, it does.

	(I never was satisfied with others' debate. It always seemed to me one had to resolve deeper, more fundamental issues before discussing such superfluous matters as abortion and decriminalization and which brother 'started it'. For example, do the brothers exist, and if so, what 'started' them? How large of a random element is there in their creation? Are they part design and part chance, was the nature and events of the universe pre-ordained at creation, or is there any way they might be swayed or changed? If you think it's random, is it really, or are you just pre-determined by whatever chaotic madness rules to think it's random?	See what I mean?	Who could possibly do anything further in their life with these questions looming over their head?)

					we resolve to move along and ignore the most crucial aspects of existence.

	instinct, instinct, instinct. survival. fancy words not fully comprehended.
		How much is instinct, I wonder? We survived because of our brains.
	Well, self-aware or not, are we not ruled by instinct?
			Business success, marriage, sex, sex, sex.
		These things control us, and they are so little more than twisted survival instinct, instinct, instinct.


I could go on and on. And I do.
There is no end, no beginnings, and no middle. Of this, I'm pretty sure I know I don't know. 


	I always figured when it was time to set this all down on paper, I'd just write...