Sometimes moments call for a stream of consciousness. Words that fester in the mind like a cancer and need to be vomited onto the page to clear the system. Rarely is a response required or recommended. It is different from venting, as no malice is contained in the words. Rather, it is a baring of ones soul in a confusing and wanting mess. The words are intended to hit the floor, flopping like a fish plucked from a pond to slowly die in indifference, gaping wide for something that will never come.
These words have to die this way because no one is capable of responding to them. No friend, no foe, no familia can digest the stuff. It is unmetabolizable. And so they die. But not without a cost, no, not without a cost. For the author of them wishes for some magical creature that can understand and adequately engage, but it is a wish without merit, without possibility of fulfillment.