• It's a rough time. It's spearing tiny moments of comfort to keep myself warm. It's the heavy cloud of inevitability that ruins my disposition. It's difficult to hide from and my brain is crumbling from the stress. It's a terrible throbbing that simply crushes everything. It's a whole, fucking lot of things that I can't talk about because you can't feel it like I do. It's not being able to call anyone "baby" or "darling". It's a dismal sort of aloneness that I can't write about. It's a vacancy in eyes from dreams about escapism. It's like shaking under cumulus sheets, in ruins. It's almost equivalent to the tiny pinprick of hope.

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