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When ever the ghosts come out, you don't always take the time.

Saturday I cried at the thought of your never knowing what 80 miles per hour feels like. The thought of pushing 65 and kicking into 5th.

And yesterday, driving a stick in 3 inch platforms I thought I could do anything.

All I smell is burning transmission fluid and scorched oil. Song of the hour is on my headphones and in the car, Blues for Andre, the lyrics lost on you.

My head aches with everything I cannot say. Editing may bring a chance, keeping it out kills all of the living cells.

My ability to deal with the current situation leaves me stranded. It's gone too. I've tried to accept this unclosed fate, it's too sour to swallow. You can read everything you've made me feel, but you should know it doesn't make me feel any better.

In fact worse, your silent eyes continue to watch and wait. For what. This: I'm all better, baby. I'm fine. It's okay. I'm not going to die, or sleep around, or cause some other hole.

There. You feel better now.

Leave me to the truth, take the lies I'm not too proud to give you.

8:31 p.m. - 2003-04-29

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