"Is This Thing On, Still?"

Now that I think of it, I have felt these things, heard the same pitch shifted voices of my own in my head telling me of the regret and falseness of everything that I know of myself, or so I thought. Still, the newness frustrates, exhilarates, and fulfills. Satisfaction in the previous, regret in the never world of all I’ve seen, dead skin microscopes reveal there’s been more than one to cross the dusty boundaries covered by the addition and subtraction, consistent and an otherworldly mathematician I have become. The oldness I feel, nothing similar to age, rather the contrary it seems. And come to think of it, all of the photographs of my year are left undeveloped.