the only reason.

the only reason i update is because i have nothing better to do. i don't care to preserve this empty period of my life - the loss of morning, the forced naps, the endless hours of television, the donation of things that once meant something to me. i'm finally beginning to understand the title: "everything means nothing to me." that includes all of this: the half-written fiction, the tiresome rants about capitalism/privilege, the vaguest of memoirs.

i've exposed myself more than i would have liked. but the truth is, i've shared nothing at all. as far as i'm concerned, this isn't me. this is someone else writing down trivial details, being some place he doesn't wish to be. someone else's life entirely. i don't know who i am, or what i want, and i probably never will. so, it's safe to say, this isn't me, and these aren't my thoughts. it's just some character, or else some recording of a poorly conducted experiment with inconclusive results.

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