I'm so tired now that I don't know what to write... only the fact that I want to write. Again I feel your pull, the endless lull against my skin that never ceases. What have you done to me? Better yet, what have I done to myself? Here I am sitting, 3:33 a.m. listening to old songs. I've never put a face or a thing to a song, but rather a place, a feeling. I am longing for something that until now, I believed to have existed. Maybe it never did, or maybe I will just never feel it again. Was it youth, was it innocence? I don't think it could have ever been both, those two things haven't existed simultaneously since I was very, very little. All I know is that I want it back now, or to somehow create it for myself.