Someday the landscape around me will too match the landscape growing deep inside
What a hopeless phrase. What a terribly, terribly hopeless phrase.
I want to have the book fully written (not edited, just written) by the end of November, at the very latest. The title of the book is 2203.
There's nothing left inside// the ink well is dry, my hand was stayed// nothing more to confide// silence on an empty stage
So I'll just tell you plainly, the smile is fake. So I'll replace it with a stiff upper lip and braced eyes. I'll be indifferent, if complacent, but faking's not fine.