I have nothing poetic to write anymore. Somewhere in the whirldwind of broken hearts and almost-a-year-after-we-broke-up sex (hah, we should make an anniversery out of it. what material should i stab you in the back with? is it ivory yet?), the looming exams waiting impatiently to tear me down and rip apart my dreams, the thick musty STATIC air inside my veins... I have lost myself. The poetic, lonely mask of me has lost the former to accentuate the latter. I miss you, stranger of my past. I miss you, non(less!)-cliched-writing.