pit a pat the sound of a rat
Dear Diary,
There is no understanding. No truth. No way to understand. A gift. A butterfly in the midst of a sea of petals. It opens its wings and there you are blessed with a gift. A talent. Each one of us has this certain gift. I see you searching. You think you know it. You smile. You have been blessed. You are wrong. You have no talent. You lie to yourself in hopes to believe you are special. Shallow and greedy in your belief that the mere fact that you have been allowed to live is not gift enough. What is my gift? I don't know. Megan was given a special gift. The gift of whoring. She must have been an incredible whore in her past life and thus this is the gift that remained. A residue. A disease
Maria
There is no understanding. No truth. No way to understand. A gift. A butterfly in the midst of a sea of petals. It opens its wings and there you are blessed with a gift. A talent. Each one of us has this certain gift. I see you searching. You think you know it. You smile. You have been blessed. You are wrong. You have no talent. You lie to yourself in hopes to believe you are special. Shallow and greedy in your belief that the mere fact that you have been allowed to live is not gift enough. What is my gift? I don't know. Megan was given a special gift. The gift of whoring. She must have been an incredible whore in her past life and thus this is the gift that remained. A residue. A disease
Maria