The door is closed, but made of paper. I had this silly idea a few months ago to fold one thousand paper cranes. Somehow, in my fucked up head, having enough of those would be enough of everything I felt was lacking. So far I've made three.

Not sure what I am lingering at. Everything I am feeling right now can be reduced down to shades of regret. Even the future already feels like the past, because I cannot get out from under my original sin. 

I want to write something so cathartic that it will make it okay to be us now. Something so strong that it will pluck the shards of twinge from our memory like a magnet. Something so sweet that it will tickle our throat like candy as we swallow each new mouthful. 

Consume me, because I said you could do anything and that is what you chose. I will hold your napkin in my lap, and then later, in my mouth.  

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