Watery and unable to want to be anything. As if joy could never belong to us but only escape us. Loving each other only because we should have loved each other before loving each other. Moving awkwardly because awkwardness is our only beauty. Feeling special as if we were living in a Style Council song. Fading miserably. Failing pale. We are not passionate, we are conventional. We don’t want a good reason, we just want to need it. But we will start again, pretending to be changed. But knowing they are still the same. To lie in the same way again. And we’ll be really good, real artists, and we’ll never think we’re useless. And we will want to produce many many wonders for those who want so much to be amazed by them. And we will say we are happy, and we will finally say it crying. Finally collapsing.

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