what is there to say about love? you could sweep up all the words and stack them in the gutter and love wouldn't be any different, wouldn't feel any different, the hurt in the heart, the headachy desire that hardly submits to language. what we can't tame we talk about. (jeanette winterson)
i'm not special. i'm not particularly different than any other girl. i like white tea and fast cars, boys with curly hair and cheeky smiles. i write on everything (napkins, hands, paper grocery bags) and read like i was starved for years. i write about the same things over and over. a musician. an actor. a writer. a synasthete. a gypsy. we are all the same.
i'm not sure why i do this anymore.
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