marquise de merteuil said it. her tone so exquisite, her struggling limbs hanging from branches, dropping letters into perfect piles of intricate leaves. why is it so--why is it that we shun those who care about us the most? is it a 'daddy left me' syndrome? are we doomed for endless years of failed love?what the fuck is love anyway.but a bunch of scrambled leaves.
fuck your perfect pile.my i's cross my t's and my z's snooze your y's.
why why why why.not.
it is beyond my control. pick up my x's where you left them.
