Burn this whole madhouse down

Slept with the windows open, under an industrial strength down comforter. Counting sheep last night before bed, kept wondering as a mantra into sleep: what's missing? What is being left out? I'm looking for you, I know you're in there.

I could just do it to myself, you know. I don't need someone to do it for me. Waving from across the other side of the river. This is optimistic, it means I've made it across, I want you to know that it's possible. Some arbitrary distance makes it impossible for me to really contact you, to reassure you. A) the river between us is deep and swift and loud b) you died four years ago c) you died four months ago d) I am trying to write a letter to a younger version of me, two years ago. On a certain tip, being a: (Back In Time, Come Home)

Jumping on lily pads. Think you're being brave for crying. You think there's courage in your anger, and there is. It should work, the trick of your feelings. You had a hunch that if you just wanted it bad enough it'd have to happen. And you're not wrong. Your hunch is right: That is enough but just not right now. You think if you wait, if you get patient it'll work, but you can't stay awake forever and he's nocturnal. He tells you that you have to fight for it and cuts you into fighting back. It's not your fault you have to wield yourself a weapon, I forgive you blood. I know you don't want to fight. You think by getting mad and sad and brave, you'll scare him into loving you back, but isn't that just as awful anyways?

Walking cold and not encouraged except by listening to "Iceblink Luck" over and over and over. An inauspicious morning, but there is a lot of room left to decide. (Mostly, rooms inside).

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