how can truth exist in a world where I choose to believe in only what I want to hear? the only voice is the voice I choose to listen to. where is the alternative and what will it take for me to change? the thought that any of the pixels and the shapes they make might matter in the morning is little help to anyone. the rubble covers over everything and I’ll wake up all the same.
knowing where and who I am means nothing, I still want to hear your voice. I miss you every day, knowing nobody is more than a person or a match for the memory of joy I thought was ours. beyond my dreams we’re strangers and you’re nowhere I have been.
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