the pen moves over the paper like the ghost in your childhood nightmares but your hand grips it and drives it in an artistic direction.it flows like the river you can only dream of escaping to. a life that can only exist in the sleep that will not come. yet your moving to a far off place your head sinking into a pillow, eyes on a white like canvas page. and your past memories one by one drip into your emptyed mind, powering the need to keep the ink staining the paper
oh fuck its you again :)
xo
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