There's a hole in my mind shaped just like your shadow. Eyes half closed in an expression of bewilderment- or is it boredom? Did I ever truly listen to you, I wonder; did I ever see you, or was it merely the projection of my own sense of lack painting the promise of a miracle upon your forehead?

What was it that made me feel this way about you, and could it happen again? I always speak of freedom, and yet, I do not really wish to die alone. The process of sharing could soften our hard shells and make us more human than we can ever hope to become by wrapping our dreams in solitude and ideological cellophane- if only we didn't turn it into an ordeal, with our rules and cheap lies and hidden expectations.