Do not rush me. You would see the worst of me for it and that vision surpasses redemption. In my cursory carelessness, layers of my trappings peel and dry in my dust. You will see me for the shaken set of bones I am and I cannot have that. I will not have your pity of comparison.
How can I compare to myself? "I, who loves you" versus "I, whose admiration is lost along with my blush/smile". Though you will say this is all me and that you will ever love me for it, these layers I cloak myself with are my skin. I am worse than naked in the bustle, I am stripped past my skin and holding onto my muscle. I can only be in the lull. Can you truly love me for that?
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-Confucius had his Analects and I have my journal-
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Idiosyncratic Quirk
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