If you want me, I'm your country.

I saw the Cardigans last night. It was a sweet sort of show. Crammed with devotees. They meant well, but their fervent cries of adoration and playlist suggestions wore on my patience. Nina Persson sounded wonderful. And she was lovely. I would never wear my jeans that tight, but I am able to admire those who do.

I looked over at the journal I have been keeping for a few years and I noted that I haven't been writing in it much. All the things I used to keep track of I seem to have let slip. There have been such statistics in my history. Tallies I used to keep that I eventually abandoned. Maybe because of the security or the dependability of things always staying the same. You get used to things. And it ceases to be a surprise that they are as they are. And there is nearly nothing new to say about them. No matter how frequently they recur. Maybe that's it. Me and my cramped, tiny handwriting -- we've taken a sabbatical. We don't always write down the dates and times. We don't always commit it to memory. We don't catch ourselves counting so much anymore.

I've been a diligent little doll lately. But oh how the time passes.

All my ways of soft distraction meant to bring you back to earth. There are words I listen for again and again. I look for them. No matter how many times I hear them. Like my father coming home at the end of the day. I never stopped looking forward to it.