Don't worry. Worry is useless. I worried anyway

Sunlight feels warm and rough against your skin like a kiss on the cheek from your dad.

He lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I inhaled. Coughed. Wheezed. Gasped for breath. Coughed again. Considered vomiting. Grabbed the swinging bench, head spinning, and threw the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, convinced my Great Perhaps did not involve cigarettes.

How can you seperate those things though? The people are the place is the people.

I felt the unfairness of it, the inarguable injustice of loving someone who might have loved you back but can't due to deadness.

I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well—but never quite perfectly, you know?

Harry Potter isn’t real? Oh no! Wait, wait, what do you mean by real? Is this video blog real? Am I real if you can see me and hear me, but only through the internet? Are you real if I can read your comment but I don’t know who you are or what your name is or where you’re from or what you look like or how old you are? I know all of those things about Harry Potter. Maybe Harry Potter’s real and you’re not.