and i sit here again, high on sleep medications because i haven't had more than three hours of sleep in over two weeks. i don't care. i don't need sleep but i if i don't sleep my thoughts will consume me one more night and i can't afford to lose myself in the thought of you again. see, i have a fickle mind and a weak heart and if i don't sleep i will want to write to you and you've already made it clear that you don't want that from me. i always knew i cared too much. but i am sitting here in my bed listening to jenny lewis and rilo kiley and it seems right that my fingers type and type endless blabbering about a girl i've never ever had the pleasure of meeting. it feels right that my eyes are hardly open and i can't think straight. it's okay. it's okay that i have these thoughts that make me lose myself in an ocean where the algae pull my feet to the bottom. it's even okay that i can't write and i don't make sense. "write drunk, edit sober", i don't think so, hemingway.
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