Horror Story

As I lay my eyes upon this piece of writing the author has decided to theme a love story, a horror piece of writing encoded within the fallacy of emotional waste of important time called some word fabricated by people in a bid to waste their precious time, my mind smiles at the foolery as my heart rate increases due to the similarity of the tale I look upon, to mine. My eyes too remember the deception, the facade, as the black and white pages of the book now seem gold and yellow to my tired visual apparatuses.
I’m back again at the moment I first lied to Rose about feelings I never had because I wanted her to not be so distant anymore. I needed her to be open. Less secluded. She might have been contemplating suicide for all I know. I liked her, but my mouth pushed me to say more. That’s not the sad part. I look back at my face as my memory paints it, as she blatantly left me alone in a desert of her own, giving me words of…
Oh, I’m blabbing again. I should just enjoy this novel in peace.

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