2.4.11

i would like to think that i'm someone you like to read in secret. i like to think that everything i write comes from a dark place, a recess that everyone has in their own minds but reach to only when they're behind veils and and grey-tinted windowpanes. why would you like to hear of broken hearts and long walks to bookshops where i spend whole days? do my imagined characters who spend their time thinking about sex and food remind you of yourself? is my escape your escape? i know that i don't write so well, i know that at best, i'm just another one of those blogs in the world, but does reading me feel like the whole world just slowed down, that it's okay to think these thoughts and it's fine to feel as if these little details that make up my world also make up yours? because that's why i like reading myself.

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