I want to write like I have heart disease and words are the only slow and painful cure, or should we say.. treatment? I want each sentence to be another ash from which the fire inside me can be reborn. I want to feel alive. Which isn't much of a dream but it's an escalator ride from the dead-silly (no pun intended) thoughts i had a few weeks ago. Funny how you can miss someone when you're still beside them, and miss them a million times more the second you hear that car door slam, and you're inprisoned in a world that is no longer theirs.. at least until next time. I'll be seventeen in about a day's time. I don't feel seventeen, whatever that means. I remember being, perhaps, fifteen, listening to 'At Seventeen' by Janis Ian, and now here I am, disproving my own theory that I already knew her truth. Love is meant for ME, beauty queen or not.. at least, hopefully, for a week or two, AT LEAST. Love, painful, tear-off-your-skin, wet-socks love, but love all the same. I miss you, Sean.