Why is it that I can only write like this while I am sad. The state, happiness, does it exist? Becoming weary as I fight against myself; I'm caught below a blanket of snow, and there are papers, textbooks, and arguments weighing me down.
Pull my bones out.
I think I'd break every bone in my body just for you.
This is not all I am, I must find myself, over and over again.
“You know she is young, she is pretty.”
-Anna Karenina
