12/22/2000. She began to feel ordinary and predictable. Like a bowl of oatmeal everyday. The fine line between reality and fantasy. Blurred. No. It is what it is I cried. And what, may I ask, is that?
12/27/2000. You could never handle me. Sitting above your head. Just an apostrophe. Maybe you excused me instead. I never wanted your intentions. My best inventions could not protect me. Everything grows in here. Nothing remains unchanged.