What I write about

All my life I’ve been writing about the same character.

Nothing I think or feel is about who I am. But I come around by thinking and feeling. Boy, do I come around. Quickly I want to be who I am. There’s no way. I’m just thinking and feeling.

I receive the whole world as possibility; as opportunity. It translates into desire, which extinguishes itself.

All my life I’ve been writing about someone who means something; about a friend I’m safe to follow.

Adults look like children to me now. I’m still searching the sky, hoping for what matters.

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