I Have This Weird Obsession About Buying

When I Don't Write, I Feel My World Shrink. I Lose My Fire, My Color.

Things Aren't The Way They Are, They're The Way You Are

Nothing Too Long Imagined Can Be Perfect In A Wordly Way.

I Despise My Own Hypersensitiveness, Which Requires So Much Reassurance. It Is Certainly Abnormal To Crave So Much To Be Loved And Understood.

I'm Awaiting A Lover. I Have To Be Rent And Pulled Apart And Live According To The Demons And The Imagination In Me. I'm Restless. Things Are Calling Me Away. My Hair Is Being Pulled By The Stars Again.