Still walking around like you're the only one who knows the ground might give out at any moment. Still too kind to everyone you meet. Still vanishing at times to walk the same streets. Still trying to hide being the smartest guy there. Still unable to look anyone in the eye. Still drunk, still high.

How am I?

Having a party tonight. Half-way through another book. Living out here now with the snow and cut cornstalks. Still terrified of crowded rooms. Still unable to believe some things aren't true. Still writing these scraps that turn out about you.