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The time is 2:19 a.m. and I sit sullenly at my sad excuse for a desk, typing, backspacing, typing, backspacing. My vocabulary escapes me at this hour. All I want is to fall into purple-hazed dreams and maybe not feel what it feels like to want and want so desperately that it stings. I think back to old friends, acquaintances, lovers, enemies (if there is such a thing anymore) and I try to imagine what they think of me now.