What an awful lot of pressure the way you hung the stars for me with just one hug. This world of chaos and clamor for the real thing. How dissapointing you were human. Only one person in this great big world full of people. The weight of a million lies I told myself to be fixed on your shoulders. How heavy. If only I trusted the things you told me...and if only you believed their effect. Would this all matter so much to me? If it weren't my everything? If it wasn't a million conversations in my head that will never happen. If it wasn't look at me now? And how every sentence begins and ends with you in this stream of life. In this stream of consciousness. If for a touch to never feel again. If my heart would keep beating without this page of black on white...if I could just stop...if I could just stop breathing in and out...I could stop. And I could live a thousand lives and never find you. Tall and dark and mysterious...and a ghost. And the ink is drying and its all in stone. It never goes away this pressure I put on another to write my story well. But I am the writer...I am the pages...I am the dreamer...he is the ghost.
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