I Was Attempting To Write The Story

Its A Fine Line Between Love And Stalking.

I Am Constantly Torn Between Killing Myself And Killing Everyone Around Me.

But I Think We Both Knew, Even Then, That What We Had Was Something Even More Rare, And Even More Meaningful. I Was Going To Be His Friend, And Was Going To Show Him Possibilities. And He, In Turn, Would Become Someone I Could Trust More Than Myself.

It's Only A Game If There Is An Absence Of Meaning. And We've Already Gone Too Far For That.

If There Wasn't A Word For It, Would We Realize Our Masochism As Much?