Sometimes I wonder about that stranger. Is he merely passing by life, driven by a temporary need to connect? Or will he forever leave imprints in my life? Who decides such things, really. All I can do is, if I allow it to, let people in, let them stay if they will or open the door. (Parang open house? Ganoon?)
Yes, I don’t like you, in fact, I may just hate you. But if I had a rubber band on my arm to snap every time I think of you, both my arms would be full of welts by now.
My pages are stained with cheap wine and cheaper tears. For Mr. Darcy, that dark, brooding, mysterious drug called man.
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