3:12 p.m. - 2004-02-17
Missing
Songs are mixing in my head; an amalgamy, a mess, a cacophany. There is ink drying on my arm instead of blood. When I was a child, I believed that if I held on to the idea of unicorns long enough, they would come back to the world. Six turned to eight, twelve to fifteen, but my innocence had already been devoured by monsters...my tenacious faith was born obsolete. I am only a statistic, one of many "survivors"...but what is it to survive if your life is withheld and existance is all that is offered you? (Nightswimming deserves a quiet night...coffee black and egg white)

Love is like grief.

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