Up is this spot, once again, hiding from the indecision plaguing my mind and the people I call friends. Fighting the inclination in my hands to type out the things in my head when I'm awake, alone, at three a.m. A chorus of humming while string quartets play somewhere far away, I'm wide asleep every waking moment these days. Playing the part of a woman well known, she's happy, she's healthy, she had nowhere to call home. Because home is where you rest your heart, where you end the cycle of missions not accomplished and sad skies with no stars. So until I find that place I'll live half a life, a full lie, waiting to play house and be yours and call you mine. It's all make believe, isn't it?
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