I used to know who you were when I looked at you. That I do not any longer sucks. This had been a view from a train station window. Now, I cannot remember where I had been going but it was completely more interesting than staying and watching you.
I hate this piece of shit. Stop looking at it.
I had thought this painting would never be finished. Once it was, I was positive I would never be the same. I am not the same. I am not the fucking same anymore, I am weaker and a bed has never been comfortable since, and apologies are wasted, and signals are silent, and the long wait insists that it is over when it is not.