|02:14 pm - So it falls|
"Thanks for the input," I say. Input like an innocent little needle to prick my wound, bleeding it of infection, drip by drip, until I it spreads, like poison oak, across by being. Better it would have been to have not heard any reaffirming surprise. Better it would have been to have walked on in ignorance, beaten down to the ground, for at least the scoundrel knows his place. No, I am not to be granted identity. I must forever be stitched and unstitched, so as to never forget what it is to feel, to die, to be born.
Current Mood: discontent