your eighty percent and our awkward silence.
life seems to have finally happened and i'm not quite sure how to live it right. there's so much within this battered self and yet so much restrictions imposed, can't write, can't talk, can't think. i don't know how i feel about your eighty percent, is it really, eighty, or seventy, how about fifty, maybe that would make me feel slightly better, somehow. perhaps, perhaps, that sort of dependency is what you want and need and yearn for, always. and perhaps, perhaps, i should be
happy for you but, this drift between us, is, not, what, i, want.
two more weeks and i'm out again. perks perks perks. all these emptiness from within occurs after six pm everyday.
