You’re not living for the modern age. So we take it back and it’s like we’re writing on paper. It’s like you found me in the back of a magazine. Circled it with a heart and now its like a movie.

Desperately desperately desperately seeking anything.

Now I can read my life back like its a novel. I can’t commit anything to print so I guess this counts.

But I remember that one time. That time I thought I had created a masterpiece. Pages and pages and it was like poetry. I thought it was like poetry. But this is the modern age and I was able to tear it all down. Wipe clean every piece, even the ones I would eventually miss. Until it never existed and you could only see it in the scars on my heart.

So I’m not really sure what anything means any more. Where is the poetry in anything?

I’m just planning where I will eventually lay everything to rest.