it's my birthday; my hand is not working anymore and i cant feel it. all i feel is this huge urge to sit in front of people and tell them in their face how they don't fit. and how everything could be better off the way they're shaped in my head.

voices are gone. it's empty, and so full of silence and waves. on the streets, off to a new me, i'm born again. without her. in vein. and wrapped in plastic bags. it's just pure beauty and stupidly gorgous.

maybe all you need is a disaster; and that's the last thing she said before she was gone; for years to come.