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misstree
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when is it too much?
is it when what should be extraordinary becomes unremarkable? nothing new under the sun leads to late nights amused but uninspired, wishing for something to come along to surprise you, but going home vaguely disappointed, wistful, thinking, well, it was pretty good, the old standard stories... maybe next time will be something to make my heart beat faster like it once did.
is it when the dirt and muck and sweat and sparkle from all those nights crusts thick into your skin, so thick that you can't see your freckles anymore? i seek and seek but i don't remember why, if i've always been this ravenous reveler or if it's an ivy that drapes me. i lose interest in most people one_on_one; is it because without a crowd, there is not enough of myself to offer?
how do i know when i've reached my quota? how can i not keep seeking more? it is useful at least to separate the chaff of interesting incidents from the wheat of inspiring interactions, but without that shared breath, without at least occasionally a howl of enjoyment too powerful to hold, well,
well.
when is it too many?
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070402
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