A rotten little written thought walks across and of my page before my eyes. As I am speaking to you now he walks with a whispering little shadow that mistakes his place and purpose,a cold and cowardly projection of words. But this is what I throw at you each and everyday- I throw the better half of my head, I throw my tongue, my lungs and my every hope and hate filled accusation. I toss begging questions until I’m tired of having to answer them on my own.
I am finding it a lot harder not to be alone.
It’s interesting to see what your head looks like when its spilled out across a hollow blue light- a cold computer’s stare. I do not wield a pen, my thoughts don't talk in ink. They remain in the memory of a busy little computer. They sit their among music and photographs and videos of friends, yet exist without them and unable to interact. They dwell alone until they turn rotten and walk up and off their page.  
I apologise if sometimes they offend or intrude, or if sometimes they take things without asking permission and lie about it afterwards, but they are only just finding their way so please show some compassion whenever your paths cross.