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Iâm reading House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski. Suggested by a friend. Itâs kind of fucked up. I like it, like demonic imagery, and dreams where I am falling. I canât explain myself, so I will not pretend.
If our conversations arenât inspired, Iâll kill them quickly. I am not some sort of liar. Iâll just mumble that Iâm tired and tired of being alone.
But that shitâs all my fault. Iâve always been reclusive. The moment something good comes up, I push it straight away.
Taabish, I suck. Taabish, Iâm sorry. I hope that Boston isnât awful, and that Canadaâs the same.
And sometimes I feel like Iâm on fire. Tobias Funke, why am I not underwater? And Iâm always cranky when Iâm tired and Iâm tired of being alone and Iâm reaching for the phone. Thank god you arenât alone.