I was in trouble.

Writing didn’t seem to cut it anymore. They wanted more and I could only imagine how that might become a possibility as my thoughts swam out poetically. The words I uttered outwardly in a careless relay of untold sympathies replayed in my mind like an old tape I couldn’t seem to part with. Their repetitions slowed and were almost borrowed by the melody of soft, dragging footsteps upon a tied tongue. We were forever connected, and yet, somehow doomed to this eternal separation in which my soul eagerly chased and, after all, was met with a loss I no longer had the means to replace.

The whole thing was crazy, but it meant a lot to me. It was definitely interesting, amidst the loss of lasting peace. Or so it seemed to be for you as well. “It’s been real”, and it has seemed to be. Or otherwise relatively normal; to relive these forgotten dreams we dream and now can fully fucking see.

I’m speaking out loud by now but only the Peanut Gallery gets me. What a breath of fresh air, a motherfucking relief. Still tripping over words and things but I’m finding my peace. In half an hour rain and much needed sleep.


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