[2301] there's always been something about rust, i never quite figured out what but it was comforting. i closed my eyes age seven and fantasized about how unsatisfying yet heavenly it would be to slaughter someone right across the neck with a rusty, dull, sad sad knife. i could almost hear the sound in my head, both the drags and the cries. i don't bleed, but if i did, i would bleed suicide and heroin and rust.

[2315] the quiet was bliss. sometimes nothing's more appealing than never opening my mouth to speak ever again. every other month i would close my door and read something out loud, bless myself with my own voice after so long. and it's comparable to a full day with no water until that moment you get a drink and something about the water is holy all of a sudden.

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