"Way of the revellers; Part Two."

You were my brother's best friend, and my youngest best friend. My undying appreciation for you may exist as just but a ghost, and you may never know how much you have impacted my life, even as the little guy you are. We all miss you, Nathan. Even I do.

It's amazing how young you are, but so eager to grow as a Christian. So young, but so loving, so affectionate, so morally and spiritually pure. You shine like young dew under a steaming sunkist heat bake. How strong you are, I will never understand. Even as just a young being in the untamed world of sins, evil, and passionate torture. I miss you as a friend, and as a brother in the Lord. You don't know how impacting as an inspiration you have been to me.

There is not a day in church where I sorely miss you. It's not the same always reserving a spot for you in the benches and seeing that a bag or another person scoot the soul that used to stay in that spot. Somebody else in that way you used to bask in. Something else speaking for what you used to say. How much the little voice, the little young boy who used to sit in that spot did something for the world, for the worlds of the lives he has been a part of. But for some reason you're not there anymore.

You lay so much on such a fragile line. Your faith may fall, your friends may forget, but know this: I won't ever.

How strong you are, how faithful you are, how inspiration emanating from you could pierce through me until its cut to its limitation, I will never know.

And how much I admire, care, wish, pray, empathize for you... you will never know.

"Waking up to doom."

My wilting bravery is slowly taking its course on me. Doom has now been my doctor of many reasons, more than one, and father doom has helped me overcome, therefore I am. For some reason, my ability to be afraid has plead guilty of treason. I have my theories why.

The fact that vacation is taking its taciturn upon most of my friends and past classmates has given me a patient's slip to a reality check-up Dr. Doom. I just realized, I've had the sand in the hourglass pouring through my fingers and it felt painless. Not in the slightest notion did I detect the sands of time actually shedding layers into older seasons. The world's single revolutions around the sun have taken its toll on me. Call it an annual pre-midlife crisis at its finest.

Secondly, my copy of Dallas #4 HAS STILL NOT COME HOME. Doom instead of the doctor, played the cop this time, attacking me with blood pressure cuffs before I were instigated into arbitrary and cardiac arrest. Dallas #4 needs a home, and it's just about time that little comic met its maker. Cha-cha admittedly interests me; his carebear + The Joker + happy tree friend nature tri-squared by his madness and cockiness is just so adorable. Plus he wears the sailor hat, man.

Doom though did say my brain capacity is increasing tri-fold. My comics are undergoing close-to-successful bypass, as an actual short story has undergone the gurney and the heat of the plastic light. My work for my first year in highschool is done, and am already kicking off my feet for the next year. Doom suggested I undergo rehab, for my capability to draw is not going quite as well as before. But then it just got better moments ago. No artist's block here.

There was, though, the thing about me that worried Doom most; my flying-high levels are warming up and rocketing out of control. Reasons would be blamed on Gerard Way, for his nautical blogs on how much he loves Frankenberry cereal, and my thirst for his new issue to arrive, and Mr. Special Somebody for causing me to have a random spazz-attack earlier. Almost went under the plastic light myself.