a Yellow Night on the Sun

I seem to be having a bit of a melancholy kind of night. I can't say I'm depressed, though. I hope the words that come out are... well I just hope they are.

I'm cozied up, just like I was very early this morning, with Mr. Dead. I wrote this there:
I like to lay back; get cozy. I draw things up around me so I can tuck back in and be away and safe from the scareful world. I relax my eyes. They know not where the walls end, at least for now, and it is here that I feel calm; here that I think good things; here that I want to be, in this bed; here with Mr. Dead.

Yeh, so possibly it's a bit sappy, but I don't care much. I imagine I will eventually tell you all about Mr. Dead, but for now, it's up to you to do with my janglings as you wish.
Thinking back on all of the time spent thinking and trying so hard not to sinks me even deeper. And I gotta tell ya: I REALLY tried to think not. A single message stopped the world, and oh God, now it's upside-down. My reality completely inverted by a Stranger.
I'm sure there's enough information and story to it that I could write a book about it, and it wouldn't speak the volumes that were spoken to me in such miniscule ways.

I reread those damn messages and my heart palpitates; I still get that anxious feeling in my gut below my solar plexus, and then my stomach turns and butterflies are everywhere. Butterflies. My skin, my blood, my bones: all butterflies, and Dear God: I don't want to lose this.

"Your skin, oh yeh your skin and bones turn into something beautiful. D'you know for you I'd bleed myself dry? For you I'd bleed myself dry..." (Yellow, Coldplay).

If only I could compose myself enough to write it out well. Is this written well?
Composure: I don't have much when it comes to this. I can write essays, papers, speeches, and the composure is immaculate. Feelings come up and I'm all over the damn place. I'm not here at all when it comes to Mr. Dead. I'm on Venus, and the transmission back down to Earth isn't clean.