I'm so sad about it. She looked like a tired, old woman in her death bed. I desperately need to cry for I feel far too sad not to. His face is liquid, battered into me, accurately, the symbol of my Ego. I visibly look like a ghost writing this, the expression on my face. It’s hard to think about her – Isn’t that what I’m avoiding, growing old and so desolately alone. How could I not pity her?
How I’ll love to walk arms into the Sun, soon perhaps. On a trip to the library. Shudder none of the birds, sing licking their own tails. I’m too emotional. I’m cutting off my commitments like the spurious, the silly. Really I just want to break apart and fall by the pale tree, woman. That night, guarded by the moon and just quietly whispering the shock of love.
Does anyone want a quiet boy? With no fucking attention and hinted, unashamed streaks of devotion.
Did you know they invented music to salvage my mind. You cannot think about your prose, you just have to do it. It’s like trying to understand God, and arriving at a comma that doesn’t lead anywhere.