05-20-24, 23:07

much has happened since we last spoke, friend, though you are more of an acquaintance than anything. you are nothing more to me than an idea, spare change in the back of my pocket. a receipt i shoved into my wallet. "i'll scrap book this." no you won't, you don't even own a scrapbook. once again i want to make you a daily ritual, a healing one of sorts, a way to sort your thoughts out into pretentious misdemeanor, as if kafka's letters were published as they were being written.

at the moment, i'm attempting to find beauty in the mundane, in life. a beauty for connection and to people. hate has no place in my world, fear neither. the only thing i must care about is myself, my soul, my person. i'm sick of being in pain. i'm sick of dying, or trying to die. i'm ready to become the man they want me to be, and i want to be.

we should talk later, friend. i'll still love you once i'm old and boney.
kisses.

-- > i want to go back home < --