The dark house is once again mine. It doesn't matter who's house I'm in, the darkness and the silence are the important parts. I am sitting in the computer room of my grandparent's house. It is late and the house has gone to bed. Except for me. The nighttime is my own. I am limited only by my imagination, bound only by the silence that I must not break. The silence is soothing, comforting. I am trying to figure things out (always a dangerous thing to do, especially late at night). I've been trying to figure things out all day. Nothing has come. The future is a strange thing, indefinite and inexorable. It will be, and yet it is whatever we make it to be. I have too much running through my head, all of which would make even less sense than what I've already put down does. I wish I had the ability to speak freely, to say whatever is on my mind, anytime and anywhere. It seems that it would be easier to learn to control what one says, than to learn to speak. The words are rarely there when I want to say them. Perhaps that is why poetry comes rather easily at times. What I cannot vocalize I scribble down on a pad of paper, halting and impassioned.