明日私に連絡しますか。写真はどう、私に見せませんか。ああ、私は怖くて、寂しいな。最近私たち全然話さない。もしかしてあなたは私のことが忘れた。速いですね。友達か、だけどさあなたの気持ちはとても寒いです。多分私がたくさん考えてね。多分．．．
My thoughts, though intangible, happen to be the heaviest obstacle that weighs me down. Why can I not do what makes me happy? That is right, I have tried, but in return came sadness a thousand folds thicker. An insect, am I? One that ponders around the arse of an ass, entertained by the motions of an uninterested tail waving me away. Whether my presence is felt on its skin matters not, the tail twitches all the same.
If you are going to be a friend who honestly could not even begin to care about my well-being, then why did you come knocking on my door again? Did the pain you inflict fail to hurt me as much as you wanted it to? Did you, after dissecting me without putting me under, want to further puncture the organs that now lay bare to your abuse? Did you want to see me dead, after all?
You have no right to say you still want to be friends when you have done nothing but reject my every attempt without reaching out yourself.
A guest comes knocking and when invited in, drops down in a coma while still conscious, taking up a substantial amount of space, unmoving, yet utterly aware.
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