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I don’t really sleep. I stare at the single curtain with alphabet and numbers and pictures. I don’t really know why I am here. I don’t know what he wants from me, this boy whose crook of the arm I seem to fit. Why every real thing to say is kept inside.
I don’t know how to deal with this.

This entry was posted on Saturday, December 17th, 2005 at 10:23 pm and is filed under life.