February 8th;

You we’re taller than the great Sycamore tree, your leaves bright and yellowed, scooped up by the mellow wind which led you drifting to places you’ve never seen. I’ve been reading a lot more lately. My mind made up of false words and memories I can’t call my own. You wanted nothing more than significance and I dreamed of purpose. Our lives were bound to cross. We’ve suddenly all lost the thrill of existing, something too vague to remember or to put in words. Fuck what we’ve lost and what we’ve gained.

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