Crisis//Crisis//Crisis.

-->Eh. Stephanie did it, so I say, why not? I like to write random shit anyway via bulletin. Might as well have it all saved and collected in one spot.<--
Well. I used to compare life to a frame by frame painting but someone came along, licked their fingers and smeared it everywhere. Life as a blob of colors without any details or point. But I've realized something. A smeared painting only makes the viewer think even more deeply about the picture at hand rather than a regular one. So? Maybe I'm a point of reference. That is okay with me. I tore up all my old letters. Guess you can say I'm growing up? I say growing out. Ghosts can't read anyway. Maybe, all we're looking for really down here, is our wings. Once you find them though, and the search is over, what's the point? To fly? What if you finally get out of your cage and fly, and you don't like it? Or get tired of it? What do you do then? What if you finally get one opportunity to fly free, and it storms and knocks you down to where you don't want to do it again? Flying? It's over-rated. Let's just dance until the sun comes up. I say, you have to lose every sense you have before you can make them become keen. You must destroy yourself in order to survive. Contradictions fuel me. I am one. Down the drain. Hold on. You just might fall off. I make no sense normally when I write. No sense to anyone else but myself. And I like it that way.