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I want to write something right now that will change the world. I want to reach into you and make you feel things, believe things, doubt. I need to connect. I am slipping away.

I have music playing. That is usually all that I need to find my voice, to feel like there is some passion in the room from which I may siphon a random intent. But it comes so slow.

I am not who I usually am.

She’s been gone for so long and yet she was right there, within my reach. And instead I pushed and pulled into the vast absence and found no comfort or warmth. There was merely the hinting, glinting, burning nothingness that has settled all around me as I drift further and further away.

I don’t even know who she used to be. I have lost track. I have slid so far down that I am no where.

Time goes on and on and on.

I fucking hate time.

I am not who I usually am.

And I’m starting to think that I never was.

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