i feel like folding myself up and placing me in a corner.

if i can't love, then wat's the use of me right? i hate the way i speak about love - like i know it so well. i find the concept is a cliche in itself; it's sickening, really. my legs ache because i've had little sleep over the past week. remember how i said that i live for the past, so i can turn round and relook each second that glides past me? i haven't been turning round lately so i'm not sure what i've been living for. not for love, tt's for sure. for now, love is like a false consciousness i secretly impose on myself, just to keep me occupied till i find some other source of amusement/bemusement. i don't believe i'm being cynical, i just don't know what to look for, and i don't feel like dying anymore.

c'mon life, humour me, won't you? (or have you forgotten just how to?)