1:46 AM

Dear Diary,

Love is a fickle thing, touching what and whom it feels necessary to touch. It’s something that finds itself bonded with loneliness, an emotion that I have felt often whilst enjoying the rainy nights of this bustling metropolis. 

As such, I find myself alone, once again, enjoying a fine bottle of a decidedly non-alcoholic beverage in a cheap plastic cup (cheers, Mother.), my fingers weaving their way through my cat’s fur, trashy television muted while Anne-Sophie Mutter plays softly in the background, wondering what has left me so empty.


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