She peppered the silver bullet with meticulously folded triangles. Every right angle an admission. Pages ripped from old, abandoned journals and transformed into horizontal confessionals. She winced and grasped at the space between her breasts. Her heart hurt with the ache of a singularity. She was tired and unable to sleep. Her devotion was a spilled mind, and calloused fingertips. This was the first time It All Meant Something.
9:52 p.m. - 2015-12-07
Recent entries:
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