19 years of life experience produce nothing but exhausted graphite scribblings and a recipe for inedibly stale bread. Dough that’s already molded before it hits the oven. What do I have to say for myself? I’ve been free falling through life and pain and only noticed the noose once I’d reached the end of my rope. Time to Tarzan swing to the next one, I guess. It’s too bad I’m an airplane. I wasn’t designed to navigate a jungle of trees. What do I have to say to everyone else? Nothing. I’m just as lost as you are; trying to fit 7 billion cylinders into 7 billion different square holes. Nothing fits. I’ve been writing for 5 years now and all my notebooks have as much to say empty as they do full. Words are just bridges over endlessly troubled waters. My only wish is to help someone else more than I’ve helped me.


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