My heart is crying out like a baby bird stolen away from her nest. Everything hurts. Hush be quiet. Quieter still. Don’t misinterpret your sadness as romanticism. Romantic neuroticism. These words spill out of me, echoing my distressed mental state. Sometimes It is hard to tell the difference between lovers and murderers, both have such passion. There are stains everywhere - I’m a lover of nostalgia but some memories are best forgotten. Some loves are best forgotten. I try to bury the bodies in mountains of empty notebooks, I can’t write in them - my words aren’t worth destroying their crisp pages. I resort always to the incessant typing on my old, broken laptop. Sometimes the lag hides away my future thoughts and then there is an empty, incoherent mess of unimpassioned wording.