And so here I am, living in my tiny little apt only a little more than a studio, and a place I try to stay away from to save money on power once in a while after I receive my power bill (gosh I don't understand why electricity is so expensive here...).
I have mostly everything I need to live.
I have pots and pans to cook, small ones, just for one.
I have bowls and plates, also small ones, just for one.
The parking lot is so crooked with restrictions that i can't invite any friends over.
Well, maybe I know I don't deal with real people well, so I don't invite one.
And sometimes when I want to talk to people, I make up a copy of myself sitting beside me with my imagination. It is someone growing with me without growing apart, reshaping but also leaving scars.
I lost the one who knows me as me.
But I'm not lonely enough to be sympathetic about a figure in a video game. I don't play video games.
Not lonely enough to buy into another OS.
Not lonely enough to not even write my own letter.
I think about the things I did wrong before, again and again and feel so embarrassed.
That's the life of my own.
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