Am i playing with words or are the words playing with me?

Blake still hasn't returned.

I guess i shouldn't really be all that surprised.

Mr Rickson is well known for taking a liking to new people, and if they are people like Blake?

Well, you can expect a night on the town that will probably go until daylight.

I went to JJ's cafe with my notebook and i sat sipping coffee and listening to the music he plays, because he only plays jazz and it's always really good to listen to. A long time ago he said he used to have bands come down and play but now nobody rolls into town, so it just doesn't happen. Blake told me that before he came to our town he saw some really cool jazz, too.

Sometimes i think i was born to late.

There is something about the night air tonight that has me feeling a little worried. All the shadows are a bit sharper, the buildings more menacing, the wind whispering messages that could be important. I knew a lady who could read the wind once, but dad forbid me to see her and before i could sneak out to see her we'd already moved again.

I wonder what she would say about tonight?

Blake left me his guitar and an old chord book he bought. I have been plucking away somewhat randomly and i like what i am hearing, though i wonder how it really sounds. Maybe i will write a song tonight, something lonely but hopeful.

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In an ocean of letters
all i can do is form words,
sentences that reach out through the darkness.
Messages to a person i've never seen,
but have always longed for.