It's Always Been Hard To Call Myself

But The Original Was There As Well—more Jaded And Rudimentary, Functional Rather Than Romantic. It Fit Not Just The Yellow House But Another Door, Deep Within My Own Heart. One That Had Been Locked So Tight For So Long That I Was Afraid To Even Try It For Fear Of What Might Be On The Other Side

It Took A Lot Of Work To Be Perfect.

It Wasn't About Being Happy Or Unhappy. I Just Didn't Want To Be Me Anymore.

It Was Like Those Songs I'd Heard As A Child, Each So Familiar, And All Mine. When I Got Older And Realized The Words Were Sad, The Stories Tragic, It Didn't Make Me Love Them Any Less. By Then They Were Already Part Of Me, Woven Into My Conciousness & Memory

And That Was It; It Was So Easy For Her. My Own Memories Did Not Even Belong To Me. But I Knew She Was Wrong. I Had Seen That Comet. I Knew It As Well As I Knew My Own Face, My Own Hands. My Own Heart.