I took a book of my mother’s once, and decided to read the last page. Years later, I picked it up for myself. Soon after I cracked it open, I remembered what I had done, and the ending was still stuck in my mind. The read was long and exciting, but it felt hollow, and short.

This is how I feel about my existence some days. Although I don’t know how the story ends, I know that it does, and that is enough, at times, to keep me from feeling anything.

My favorite stories are the ones that never end.

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A tribute to that one outlet, forever ruining all of my stupid pictures.