I don't know what this means, but I have not written a single thing about you. My heart has not written anything about you, for you. There has been nothing so immovable that has pierced and pushed my writer's soul into oblivion. I don't know what this means. I don't.

The things you cause me to write are of the removal and sacrifice of my existence. There is nothing beautiful in those words, and there is nothing I can do to twist the face of those words. I don't know what this means. I don't.