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I haunt the upstairs bedroom of my family's house, where they rarely catch a glimpse of me. Only the cat seems to know that I'm here, and she keeps the bed warm for me at night.
I am both haunting and haunted - by debt, by unread books, by potential futures and by my reflection in windows. I am tethered to this plane of reality by the things that won't let me go - crystals, strange books, labyrinths, Chinese food, spirals. My existence is not lonely, for I am quite good company, but it is perhaps tedious, dulled by the monotony of routine.
I apologize in advance for my atrocious penmanship; so hard to hold the substantial world you know.
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- 3 years ago
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