We sat in the car as the rain poured down, stationary, in silence. We were talking once, I guess, but the ineffable had quickly crept into our conversation, intoxicating until we could only sit and ponder our separate thoughts. We sat in the car as the rain eased off for no purpose other than to be there, exchanging drops in the oceans of our thoughts. And perhaps, like her, I'm just trying to rewrite what Fitzgerald has said so much more succinctly, but maybe literature is only a repetition of ideas onwards onwards cloaked in the clothes of a different civilisation. So we exist in this strange liminal space preoccupied largely with existence itself and the trivial details of an empty space. If I was technical, I'd call it a 'vacuum' but science is not my thing and I'm not entirely sure I know what I would then me. But what meaning? I do not even know what the word 'meaning' is or what exactly it consists of. What is the point in trying to define anything in a world of mutability and unknowability? I guess I'm disillusioned or whatever; I am tired of the world's woes despite being only a spectator, I am weary of this aching silence to which I am forced to oblige. I watch, I watch, but can only do so passively. I yearn to change this, to yell at the world until it listens but I am not yet ready, nor have I obtained a microphone. And I guess we don't know anything really.