I don't know what to write. So much has happened and I can't fit the pieces together to make even a slightly comprehendable picture. We are a canvas that has been painted, and repainted, slashes of red, purple, blue, then stripped bare and painted all over again until there are far too many bitter layers of colour to see what was ever there in the first place.
I am going to think. Not sure what about. But thinking is supposed to do the trick?
I love him, although I should despise him, especially now, with every pore in my body.
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