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I cannot count the number of times I have had writers block, and mostly because of you. I won’t let myself write about you anymore because I realize you don’t exist. It’s true I wish you did and that’s why all my stories, poems, and thoughts are about you. It’s sad because you don’t exist. Again even now as I write this sentence I try to change the subject, but at the last minute it again turns to be about you. Why do I keep writing to you? You don’t exist. Still I scribble these words across the page and they are all for you. You, you, you who doesn’t exist. How many times do I have to write it to make myself understand? Apparently many more since I continue this letter to you. You who doesn’t exist.




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