Britney

Every morning I wake up. Am I functioning? Good. That’s all I need at this point in time.

I don’t talk to many people, I realize. The oddest part is that it doesn’t bother me. I sleep a lot, of course. A classic depressive.

I have horrible dreams—the worst I’ve ever had. The scariest part is how much of a reflection of my reality they are. I suppress a lot.

I would like to be warm, I would like to be stable. I would like to not miss deadlines, I would like to write more, would like to spend more time outside of my apartment without feeling like Death’s breath is on my neck.

The emptiness, though. Oh god, the emptiness. Make it end, please. ♦