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I like to think of myself as an old leather journal, with thick pages that have dark ink scribbled all over them. There are lines through entire pages, and ink blots where great ideas have flowed. Yet all the same I am someone to cherish, to remember

Message from Writer

"But here is the truth of nostalgia: we don't feel it for who we were, but who we weren't. We feel it for all the possibilities that were open for us, but that we didn't take."
-Welcome to Night Vale


January 27, 2016


The dots dance on my screen.
Mesmerizing me with hypnotic temptation.
What will she say?
What will I?
A story,
The lines go in decreasing order for ammount of words from 6-1.


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  • January 27, 2016 - 8:45pm (Now Viewing)

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