then i dreamt my true love unkempt it.

i could write a million words about who i am, or what i like, or who i want to be. I could fill up pages with my thoughts, feelings, fears, and insights into every day life. I could pour out every truth from the deepest caverns of my conscious and every lie from the depths of my mistakes.
but i'd just end up empty.
and you'd just end up bored.

color me cryptic

this settles it. call it desperate. call it lonely. but i have something to say.

and i’m not entirely sure i want anyone to listen.

if you’ve found this, its a mistake.

“i’m sorry, you have the wrong number.”

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