i envied those who had friends to be with comfortably. how naturally they found homes in other people, while i was the gate-crasher who always wandered around. i didn't exactly know what a friend was, but everyone else had one and it looked nice so i wanted one too. but the only friend i ended up having was the monster under my bed. maybe you cannot truly have something until you realise how rare it is to find. but the others made it look so easy. maybe this island of isolation was meant to be my home and this friendship thing would always exist beyond the horizon i saw. and still i kept an eye out; i continued burning trees. the smoke only reached the sky who invited me over for tea, but i kept delaying the date — not you, i said.
not you, but then who else?
