He's the kind of boy who feels most comfortable walking the highway in the middle of the night because it scares him so badly that his hands shake. He is always safe, but he won't return home until he has succeeded in changing at least one person's life forever.
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I haven't much to say this time around. Honestly, I think I'm writing here because I can't write for real. I'm back in another lapse of writer's block. It doesn't make any sense since I've been handed the absolute best sources of inspiration these past few days.
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An old friend who's had a grudge against me for years now has finally chased away that stormcloud. It was so calming, and so enlightening. If she can fix her problems, so can I. Things are about to get real!
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I've been scraping layers off my nails for the past hour, and now they're all chipped and rough and ruined. They leave little trails of red down my arms when I connect my freckles, and the picture doesn't come out to be anything beautiful.
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Your blushing bride said the word "beautiful" the other day, and I wanted to die. Every step I took throughout the past month was erased, every wall shot down, and every hope had its wings ripped off. It's ridiculous that you've made me hate that word so much. It's ridiculous that I let you make me hate that word so much. I figured I should warn you because next time she gets a baseball bat to the back of the head, and you and I both know who would win in a fight.
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Ah, my violent tendancies are spilling over my collarbones.
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