It's like those dreams where you're holding hands with some mannequin person, so desperate to find a corner where you can make out, in an alley or something, and you keep getting interrupted
It's like I can't even bear to read this poem, I'm so desperate to get out of this poem and go somewhere and write it
Lately I've just been reading those seafaring novels and watching GIRLS with my mom's hbogo login, I've been so sick and it's been so comforting, the language is really easy and nobody has children
Or if they have children they're like thousands of miles away, in a cottage, and maybe there are some midshipmen eating rats or whatever
Remember my mouth forming the words of "Letter in November"
I don't know if I even want to get that excited about a poem or a person ever again
It makes you feel young and happy but so helpless
The point of my degree was supposed to be mastery
Everybody keeps telling me to quit it with identification but otoh there's some good scholarship on identification lately so I feel authorized
Hi thanks for the permission to feel something
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