It's been a long time old friend. . .
A question was asked the other day. . .
"The last person's hand you held, when you did so, did it mean something to you?"
It did, more than it ever has before. . .
I was terrified.
I'm going to start writing in this thing again, on a regular basis. Nobody would read it, nobody I still talk to anyways, a tragic story indeed. It will be a different. I'm going to go about journal entries differently than I remember doing during my fetal stages of high school. I'd like to talk more about the demons inside my head. You know, the stuff in the back of your mind that almost rises out of your sub conscience with everything you do, a sickening motif if you will.
"The last person's hand you held, when you did so, did it mean something to you?"
It did, more than it ever has before. . .
I was terrified.
I'm going to start writing in this thing again, on a regular basis. Nobody would read it, nobody I still talk to anyways, a tragic story indeed. It will be a different. I'm going to go about journal entries differently than I remember doing during my fetal stages of high school. I'd like to talk more about the demons inside my head. You know, the stuff in the back of your mind that almost rises out of your sub conscience with everything you do, a sickening motif if you will.