hair askew glasses askew you selfish bitch do something until it hurts. abstain until it hurts. write until your hands cramp up and your back aches. wander the city taking pictures until your feet are tired and your batteries are dead. don't call him don't wait for him go home alone and be filled with that wanting and then come back to these pages triumphant.
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before I leave this place I'll know every angle of every corner and every crack of every sidewalk and every inch of my secret hideaway.
maybe it's just that I need the wanting like I need the windowpanes there's nazis in tuxedos and unrest here on this day of perpetual finishing and I'll sit in the kitchen and write pages about the imaginary boy who will climb up my fire escape to leave pieces of himself on the rooftop for me to find, stealing little moments from the corners of my mind and maybe flowers in an old soda can 'cause it was all that he could find.
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