No matter which piece of writing I read, whether it's about me or not (which it never is anymore, of course) I still feel that choking sensation of reading something that's too good to be read. Another ache, what else do I ever write about?
For years and years and years and YEARS, I'd read your words over and over and over until the words speak 20 different languages at a time. I always knew you were so eloquent. Your words always did make me tear up. Even the absurdly happy letters and the excruciatingly sad letters, actually..especially those. Your words, they choke at my throat, and stay there till I decide to breathe again.
Right now, I'm contemplating whether or not to open up that big box of our memories. I'm contemplating whether or not to feel how I'd felt before, younger and more innocent. Is it time for nostalgia? Tempting, really.
My mind grows. MY MIND GROWS.
For years and years and years and YEARS, I'd read your words over and over and over until the words speak 20 different languages at a time. I always knew you were so eloquent. Your words always did make me tear up. Even the absurdly happy letters and the excruciatingly sad letters, actually..especially those. Your words, they choke at my throat, and stay there till I decide to breathe again.
Right now, I'm contemplating whether or not to open up that big box of our memories. I'm contemplating whether or not to feel how I'd felt before, younger and more innocent. Is it time for nostalgia? Tempting, really.
My mind grows. MY MIND GROWS.
