Which means I will no doubt write like shit.
Who wants to hear how much it means to light 2 candles, a stick of sandalwood incense, talk to your parents for an hour, say hello to the D (who still wont talk on the phone because he thinks he voice sounds wrong), listen to whatever you want from your playlist, plan out your weekend of book-buying, and fall asleep on the couch with a book on your chest?
Happy is only interesting when it is in the past.
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