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6 February '98

i've bruised my knuckles so many times. sure there's problems. black and blue. blue and black. and each seperate key rings loudly now. hight above. middle c. i'd love to be away from here. i'd love to have pasta with Destruction. and sleep under the stars with my love. instead, i'm stuck. i'm here where i've always been. lingering in a past i'd love to forget. or maybe just erase. two times over. and i smudge the blue ink with my thumb and pray for better days. if i can't be with her now, i want to feel the pain of a thousand lives. to see the beauty of a hundred deaths. if i can't be with her now, i want to be alone. shut away in my cave: an uncle's curse. if i can't be with her now, i don't want to be. but since i am, let me suffer. let me taste the lips of death and make me plead for more. as i wait impatiently for hers. a breath of life. i drown in my illness and injury. my only dream. if she is that, is everything else just a nightmare?
the nights i can avoid staying home i do so without hesitation. it's hard to lie in this bed, surrounded with pictures and thoughts of this dream.
what surrounds me? posters. more posters. a black pillow. a corkboard. picures, a fighting nun. i'm sick.
i'm haunted by the idea of teenage angst. i'm in love with purity, simplicity, innocence, all that is genuine, i'm in love with contrast and chaos, and a girl on the other side of this land. i'm in love with ideas and ideals. i'm in love with lines and sharp edges, curves and crumpled drawings.
everynight (on the nights that i sleep) before i sleep, i remember to say my prayers. i have only one. and that is the love i hold for you. so everynight - to the painfully beautiful phontographs on my wall (and in my memory) - i say i love you. and i do. all the more.

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