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9 March '98

i think it was spent w/aversion. all of it. walking down the halls. maybe a specific hall. fearing that the pen would get lodged in her throat. sometimes three pens on the anticipated days. she tossed her hair back and shot a look up at the boy walking above on the balcony. the cactus boy. he spends his life far from embrace. her head was down. she says it's because of her shoes: the great conversationalists. i dont know who she Was anymore. i know who she is now. because we despise each other, we become each other in a way. though she makes me out to be something i'm not. not even trying to be anymore.
there were no good days. or bad, really. the only way to understand chaos is to become chaos. with every letter and number. with every curve and key. the transformation went pretty damn well. who had more order? i ask now, knowing we were equal in our extremes. the lines continue. it doesnt make sense. i never want it to make sense. otherwise i'll learn to justify her actions. and my confusion is worth every one of her unjustified mistakes. so i leave it at that.

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