he's not real. your eyes are and you're good at painting pictures about what they see with words. and I think you're right. nobody will ever know you beyond yourself. I guess we're lucky you're a writer and you keep painting these still-lifes for us to try to understand.
I love you. this is beautiful. no doubt you changed things for her. no doubt they've all been changed by you. it is a privilege to be on the fence to laugh to mourn sit with you and listen.
and you're not alone, no matter where. we are always only ever in between. we learn to distract ourselves with each other and reflections of desire whatever we project consume take away from things we see and hear and eat and shit. another day looks different for everyone. but we all sit on the same assembly line. all born screaming all take oxygen make carbon til we're spat back into the mud from which we grew. it's all a little silly. I'm just glad to sit on the line next to you.
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