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I want to.

It's going to be someday, one day, every day, today.

I'm frustrated, and angry, and cheated, and resentful, and I can't say fuck enough times in my head to justify anything.

Though I am this. This is me. And I've not been defined by anyone in years. Yet I take this goddamned box, and fill it up with me, as the I key jams, and puts five in for every one, making me <--- Backspace more than normal.

Smoke more, gain more, lose more. How many of us seek solace through our ears? To the point nothing else matters, much. Well, no. That's a lie. The sound just tries to replace what it shouldn't.

PS - I'll post pictures tomorrow.

10:24 p.m. - 2003-07-11


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