"I've been playing a sad sad song in my head since yesterday and look how mad it makes you to do that. I cannot sleep like I used to anymore; I slept at four in the morning today, three hours after I began to try and somewhere in the middle of going mad and wondering what it is this empty aching thing that runs through each of us so unfailingly that a song an old man wrote with knowing can make an adolescent cry and why in the dead hours of wide awake night all of this and everything is reduced only to the comfort of other arms and the hope that the screen lights up so you have someone to say something to. I don't know why I woke feeling happy and wrote songs of my demons and ended up sad or why I do this to myself sometimes or why I looked for Home and The Fairies again when I know it makes me hear the Elephant Parade to see it and that the tune is so pretty it makes me want to cry. There's things you never write unless you create an identity not your own and allow that person to say it. I will put these italics in quotation marks to throw you off and to stem your concern if any of you who happen to stop here today read it and see me in it and no I will not respond to what you might want to say if any of you stop by to say anything at all. I am young and only yesterday I had felt full of life and now I'm older than I ever want to feel. And visible. To see if anybody at all reads the message and. And knows. And comes. I don't know why I'm still looking at this picture or why I'm not hiding this yet. I will, tomorrow. But not today.
Do you know, if my ipod could speak it could be my favourite friend. I thought this up yesterday. But I forgot to tell you all."