A peril of going through the internet; you change. It rattles around the head.
I think it’s incomplete.
These letters, like this promise, is not for you.
I was born with an extremely rare and incurable disease…
\ ˈsmī(-ə)l \
I’ve been reading more poetry lately.
More room for regrets. Give me your thoughts, as I seem to have none.
The recollection of love lost is painful,
but the mere existence of love can be an infinite joy.
Reading old works, apparently, is also a bit like awkwardly meeting yourself as a stranger
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.