I'm reading House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski. Suggested by a friend. It's kind of f**ed up. I like it, like demonic imagery, and dreams where I am falling. I can't explain myself, so I will not pretend.
If our conversations aren't inspired, I'll k** them quickly. I am not some sort of liar. I'll just mumble that I'm tired and tired of being alone.
But that sh**'s all my fault. I've always been reclusive. The moment something good comes up, I push it straight away.
Taabish, I s**. Taabish, I'm sorry. I hope that Boston isn't awful, and that Canada's the same.
And sometimes I feel like I'm on fire. Tobias Funke, why am I not underwater? And I'm always cranky when I'm tired and I'm tired of being alone and I'm reaching for the phone. Thank god you aren't alone.