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playwright /
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Je ne suis pas certain que j'existe. Peut-être je suis seulement air, et tout ce que je fais est se déplacer. Un fantôme que personne ne peuvent entendre. Tous le temps je cherche des horloges afin de mésurer moi-même. Mais pourquoi? Je ce fais, pourquoi? Je ne sais pas ce que je suis! Ah, je suis stupide, je suis confuse. Je suis la fille qui ne peut pas décider. Un moment, je ris, et le prochain, je disparais. (I wrote you a poem, just for you, just for you, and I never read it. I never told you how I felt, and I think I have to make up for it... it doesn't make sense. One day, I was walking, I was just walking down the street, watching all of the people swarm the crosswalk like a mass of insects coming after me, and I felt like I was somehow gone, had been gone for some time. Perhaps I had disappeared before I even started to be deathbed-philosophical, before I realized that j'avais oublié la douceur de monde. And then I was erupting, but I didn't let it show, because nobody would have seen it anyway. The phone calls, the tones of and the hints in everything; I wondered, had some monster crawled out from underneath my bed and devoured my soul as I slept, unaware? J'ai été frustré. Drowned in that notion, and others. Et maintenant? Rien. Non, je ne suis pas correct. Pas rien. Seulement les poèsies.) |