(no subject)
When I was sitting behind the bush with the sharp leaves I used to cut myself with. I would press the cut against my best friends open wound. We would from then on claim we were brother and sister. Riding our bikes away into the woods we would walk through the thorns and every other small obstacle, reaching a beautiful farmland of tall grass. My friend would then declare she saw a ghost and we would run screaming as fast as we could back out of the woods. We would then declare the many perils we faced inside the Jungle of Mystery, where the old lady in a white dress that sacrifices babies lived. And where the man with the shotgun barely missed me, thinking I was a burglar. Am I the victim or the killer of my own dreams. I don't know, and I can't remember. What happened to me?