This is the second night I will be here until an obscenely late hour. I don’t want to work; I have to work. I want to go home; I can’t go home.

So I ride the Web. I surf. I look at other people’s lives and diaries and pictures and think how beautiful people can be, how beautiful they are doing their best to be.

(Remind me to tell what I think about the angels I think are inside us all, sometime, when you and I can sit down and giggle together.)

I think about my other brothers, out there in the world, about where in the hell we are all going, about what is all gone, about what we may have missed out on. I miss my big, artificial extended family; my house is lonely without them, without anybody. It’s just me in that place, now, with all of that wood, wood, wood everywhere that needs to be warmed up by the heat of people, from parties and dinners and dates and lovemaking and dancing and drunken melancholy over where our lives are going.

(Where are we going? Where have we been?)

And I’m here at work, at work at 10.00 o’clock at night, exhausted from the all-nighter I’d pulled the night previous (9.00 pm to 6.00 am; I don’t recommend it). But I need to finish, need to meet my deadline, need to get this goddamn game out the door so I can start to do other stuff, cooler stuff, so I can get home earlier, so I can cook more good food, read more good books, attempt at having a love life (and you know that’s what we all mean when we say: “I have no life.” It’s code for: “I have no love life. There is no Other in my life who fills and fulfills me.”).

And you know that we’re all just lonely, lonely, lonely, that we may live on our own and grouse about roommates and significant others, but, deep down, we are ecstatic that there is someone there. We are social animals; we need the pack, even if it’s a pack of two. We need to belong.

I need to belong. I think of what I think I belong to now: The Family of Rakunas; The Family of Mudders; The Family of Cal Poly Pomona Physicists; The Family of Mountain Bikers; The Family of Writers; The Family of Romantics; The Family of Professional Dorks; The Family of Realtime Associates (Inc.); The Family of Cooks; The Family of Hopeless Romantics; The Family of Drummers; The Family of Fans of Kurt Vonnegut; The Family of Humans. I know I belong, that I’m a part of all of them; do they?

I put my thoughts onto paper (virtual or not, I look at Word and see a piece of paper on one hell of a typewriter), I let things roll out of my brain like laughter from a fountain into my hands, into the keyboard, onto the screen, and onto the Web.

What in God’s name do you think the Web is all about? Why in God’s name do we all put MAIL ME at the bottoms of our pages?

Why do you think? We want others to reach back as we reach out the window and make love to the world.

So, here’s me opening my window from the sixth floor of my building. Look out below.