These last four weeks liquified in my memory and dripped down passed my eyes, repeating, repeating in a tight orbit. They will continue for the rest of this life until turning into succumbing to Kessler syndrome. I lived together with a few of my younger cousins and neices, at the oldest barely elementary schoolers. When the youngest was still unborn, I was very close to her older sister. We would play simple farming and adventure games together as I emulated them on my computer and I taught her to read English. She was quite clingy to me frankly, but I didn't mind. I really enjoyed having a family member again to feel close to. I wish she would never grow up. Mom began directing a significant amount of strain for the latter, and she would become hated that child. Why had she been born and free. I put my hands underneath her armpits a real her attention towards the baby as the other child entered elementary school. This caused some excessively upset that all the attention didn't belong to her. I suppose you could have said she usurped my place? In a fit of upsettedness, she ran crying into my arms as they were the only ones and lifted her into the air while we hugged. She had such beautiful and soft clothing. I felt like Will I ever get the opportunity to become one, really though? As much as these recollections float up to the surface picturesque, they'll never take back the times when I couldn't be there for her. The times when I myself needed to cry, when I pushed her away. Once I got my second job, I never saw her much anymore. By now her age has doubled and she has begun to direct herself inwards. I can only hope that we might be able to reconnect to the same degree we did as children when she's older, when I've graduated college, when she finds herself. ... I stood at the foot of the stage with three of my classmates as we prepared for a play in the gymnasium. I recall my thoughts being distinctly in the I couldn't stop worrying about how much we didn't prepare. While I flipped through the pages and searched for the boldened text that would indicate my lines, I realized I could not read a thing of it. Trying to explain this to the others, I was disregarded as they had their own lines to memorize. I made a fool of myself. ... The entrance to the art room first comes through a large wooden door. The handle is snaking and narrow with many accessories attached to itself. As the door cracked, a soft ring flew out and I entered the room. Along two of the walls were large monitors, each with the 3D model of an OS-tan girl on them. Various students held conversations and asked them questions, I wasn't able to eavesdrop too much—not that I had any particular desire to do so. I approached the leader of the club and asked about sharing my art and asking for advice. I already had two drawings in mind I felt would be most appropriate to show that I had finished within the past month. "They have backgrounds, right?" "Ah, well, no they don't have backgrounds..." "You'll have to return once you add backgrounds to your drawings, sorry." Frankly, I was relieved I didn't have to show my art to someone else of their discretion rather than my own. I thanked them for their time and wandered around the clubroom briefly, approaching the large monitors from before, until finally opening that loud ringing door and leaving. At least it was because of my own art. This environment was amazing. So many skilled people gathered just in one room. If they knew I took drugs, I would be discommunicated and it would all be over.