and then i shall begin my social life again. and attempt to pack my life into two suitcases to take with me to the other end of the world. it's so bloody soon, i can't decide what i'm feeling anymore. things are just happening way too quickly for me and i just feel completely engulfed in tides of i dunno what.
all poetic and lyrical form have abandoned me. does this then make me a truly postmodern writer?
well, attaching swanky labels to my inability to string together decent sentences just doesn't seem that right.
