my first book

violence
and
sensibility

the fucking empty set, revisited.

I saw love and I saw lust. I could choose only one of them. Chose love, but love, didn't choose me. Life goes on as a car with its windows shut, just travelling, never going nowhere. I wish I could share my writings and be appreciated, but hell... won't happen, then why should I even bother?

People are dumb
People are dull
If they weren't
they wouldn't be listining
to me at all.

Should I be or should I breathe?
Clearly, both can't exist.

Next chapter won't be called "About a girl", it shall be called "About a boy".