Hardly anything ever goes to plan.
And hardly anything here is mine. No, actually… nothing belongs to me.
And yet, these were my words, right?
Has anxiety made my face old?
Living with fear, not in it.
Googling. What for?
Meaningless conversations, relationships.
It’s not my job, it’s not my job, it’s not my job.
Telling it like it is.
Spring. The scent of something beautiful that will be gone soon. See also: You smell of spring. See also: the agony of spring.
According to several independent sources, I am beautiful. A little bit tacky to blurt it out like this. But still… it feels nice.
A lifetime of calibrating my wishes.
Apparently, I have not been forgotten.