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July 15, 2003
Sometimes there's no one out there. Someone's not on my side. Nowhere is calling out to me. It's telling me to come home. I can't think of anywhere that I'd rather be. No one is looking at me. No one's by my side. Nothing is what I get for it. This wreck is where I reside. I can't think of anywhere else that I belong. Silence resonates in my head, hung low. Everything sinks into everything else like rain on paper. Ink is always running when it can. Sometimes I wish the story of my life was written in pen.