The book that taught me nothing (and everything)
The first time I felt void of meaning was in my bedroom, hidden somewhere between the third and 86th pages of my sloppily written stanzas. For a second, my reflection in the deathl…
The first time I felt void of meaning was in my bedroom, hidden somewhere between the third and 86th pages of my sloppily written stanzas. For a second, my reflection in the deathl…