At this point, I don't even know why I even write on here. It's not like I can sit down to coherently think about anything. Even these thoughts, it's like in jumbles, randomly. I can only feel the touch of the keyboard as I press my fingertips on each letter. Other than that, there is no feeling there. I am tired of the uninvited knowledge I am not privy too, I am tired of being blacked mailed about it and even more so, refusing to sink so low to do something about it. Though I suppose, I should have, when I began to see a pattern of abuse and misuse of power in the beginning. It's all too late now and I have this hollow, numb, harrowing, eccentric cavity. This cavity in my chest, this desire to fill the numbness of my fingertips, but inability to do so with any means I possess, it's all maddening. This winter is not going to be treating me well, I can see it. All of this work is a hindrance.I really could have been writing, reading, critically analyzing something...or thinking in general.
I liked thing as they were settling down. I was comfortable, adjust, and moving forward with my master plan of life. All hail to the "Bitch Goddess: Money". Nothing like the need to eat to interrupt with the dream world of a writer who really would just like to be left alone to do her work.
I liked thing as they were settling down. I was comfortable, adjust, and moving forward with my master plan of life. All hail to the "Bitch Goddess: Money". Nothing like the need to eat to interrupt with the dream world of a writer who really would just like to be left alone to do her work.
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