I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock hem up DOES rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.

"History is the echo of voices we can no longer hear."

I write to make sense of my own existence.

郊区的耶稣是个谎言