the names matt.

Seasons seem to tamper with the heart, a swirling memoir of 24 years packed into 3 or 4 months. But you won't catch me closing my eyes.

Heartache would never conquer the mobilized paper flow I kept dated. The colors seem to be fading and bleeding, I can't remember everyone. What's the point of writing, or remembering.

Because when I look back, I remember it all lead me to you.

Every.
Single.
Step.

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