i am always surprised at my attachment to things that are not mine. i suppose i feel that they are mine in some certain personal sentiment, but nevertheless they aren't and will never be, and moreover what i feel about them or however i might lay claim to that bench by the tree or this bay view with the stairs in the way, it matters not. i cannot effect anything.
so today i hate the world. even those parts i profess to love and even those parts i don't profess to love, but love anyway. today when i hate them, they are as remote as the days when i love them. which is the highest form of insult. my outrage is a not even a fly on the wall.