This isn't me, I'm losing myself and where I found it. I found it in her, in her writings. How I wish it were her words that sped from my fingers now, not mine. The day has danced it's mystery upon my mind, clouding in a crippled confusion as I wander about the streets, no longer knowing who I am, or who I want to be. I barely know who I ever was. Why won't they all just understand? Why won't they just see me for who I am? Because I am afraid to show them, I know that is the answer.

The empty night lights the face of the wanderer with a speckled fascination, throwing shadows upon those that pass.

Why won't they ask? If they did, I would lie, I always lie. Nothing's wrong with me. Yet I want there to be. I'm just too afraid to tell them, to have them judging me.

The shadows are clicked into her, the wanderer steps over the pavement. They follow her, always following, always one step behind. In a rush of a moment she attempts to let them catch up, they've bent down to tie a shoe.

How could someone judge me? That would mean there was something wrong with my mind, and to admit a flaw… it would be to admit the way they brought me up. Oh how how how, and that one word is emphasised in its glory because I do not know any further way to place it.

There is a question on the smooth mouth of the wanderer, that sits in the air, waiting for a passer-by. There is none. Again it repulses into the soft night, and again it is left without remembrance. She cannot do anything but walk in the willows of the moon.

This all, this is both who I am, and who I want to be. There is no fantasy, only reality. There is truth, that can never be real. There is a life, that is waiting to be lived, and has already past. All that's left, is everything that was there at the beginning, no answer gained. And that's the way it shall always be, that's the way she wants it, the way I want it.