I feel this need to be full and I am ravenous. There’s something missing in this black pit of me so I drink words in gulps and filter in music just the same.

The window to my right alerts me to the world outside, but as empty as I am I feel no desire to exit. I only need to be filled with words, even if there never seems to be enough. No mountain of letters could fill me up but I try anyway – even creating my own to try to stop this aching hunger in some way.

The world outside is black and cold and empty and entirely fake. I devour worlds through the words of others to see something more but still I am empty. Nothing leaves me satisfied for very long so I consume and consume.

This is my empty head. And this is my empty soul. I live worlds by the paragraphs and still I have not adventured enough. Still I am not satisfied. Still I am not full.

Still I want and still I starve.


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