| depression and effort, comfort in the future is futile and i'm reading the wrong books, reading deflating words and inflating hope for contentment. words like, if, when. words that should be fuck you, never, go away. words that really should be balance, harmony, beginning-less. but i am shallow and you dig me out in one spot and fill me in another, and you bury me inside myself and save me before i crush my own lungs, dead. wants over needs, privilege affords me that which i would really, physically die without. so i can long and ache and die and die and die without you while i eat enough and am kept warm enough and healthy. impulsivity, is there anything more mentally satisfying than satisfying you. if i wait will it be better, will germany be brighter, lieben heller sein? the morose roots itself in the singular.
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