The varnished wood in the house has become heavily laden with moisture.  In turn, it is sticky to the touch.  The humidity came from the rain which was loosed this morning.  I watched the rain, drove in it, listened to records in it, listened to it.  There wasn't much substance to doing such things, and I'm not even really sure I enjoyed it.  There's this conflict that I enjoyed it solely on the basis that rain was out of ordinary; that I enjoyed it because of more aesthetic reasons; or that I did not enjoy it at all.  I want to pretend that the rain was aesthetically pleasing and that I am better off because I enjoyed listening to said rain.  But I don't think it was, really.  And to a degree I enjoyed it because it interrupted the monotony of these days, so I suppose the answer to my internal conflict is the first line of reasoning, thought I try to convince myself otherwise sometimes. I finished a science fiction novel earlier in the morning, while it was raining.  This was the second time I had read it.  It meant more to me the first thim through; I suppose it was more in tune with the destructive, spiteful teenage angst which surrounded my thoughts a few years back, unlike the more dwelling, melancholic angst that filters through me nowadays.  That saddened me a bit, that I was not able to get as much out of a work simply because I had changed over the course of two years from the last time I read it.  Sometimes, I miss who I was a few years ago.  I wish he was still around as a separate entity to be friends with, to talk to, to get input from.  Since he would be me, we'd feel very closely on things (I have changed since my early adolescence, so we would not see eye ot eye on everything...) and I think we'd get along very well because we'd know our own habits and desires and how to deal with situations, emotions, etc. Drinking a mountain dew, the beverage of choice from ages 12-16, and for the most part, today as well.  Listening to dischordant electro-industrial-neoclassical music courtesy of Passarani.  I recall a Saturday night tradition I had, where I would listen to some angst ridden music (to fuel my writings and get the emotions flowing) and drink mountain dew while typing into a very personal computer diary the occurences of the past week, feelings, anticipations, and hopes.  The diary  password protected...  Over time, this diary became quite extensive and seems intimate and nearly profound when I read it now.  These online writings are more or less a tamer version of what normally went in that diary.  I think I shall restart that tradition, for it felt good to talk to someone about so many things.  My computer was my best friend those days.  It would always listen, never judge, and I could always rely upon it.  It let me be selfish, it never troubled me with any of its' problems...  When I reread that diary, I still feel every event, I still have those memories stored away in my mind, and am thankful that I have them.  I want the future me to know how the present me thought of anything and everything.  I will write to my computer once more. "Oh little ghost boy, let me be your human toy."