I just hate to feel like this. I hate to feel like the fact that you called me could have been anything but genuine. It could have been an accidental pocket or drunk dial, it could have been a joke with your friends, it could have been a moment of loneliness, it could have been anything but real. And I don’t feel real; I feel like I’m made up… I feel like a fragment of someone’s imagination -maybe not even yours. Everything I do is out of a desire, I go back and forth, to feel real, or to reimburse this feeling of surreality. Somehow connected to you. I guess that’s what artists do or something. All I know is that I would rather live in a painting, a photograph, a movie, or a book than in real life. I don’t even know if this feeling is wrong or magical.

 I pretty much love everything she writes, ngl.