You can’t see it, not in the first breath I take when I step out into the cold, not in the way I look at another pretty girl chasing the yellow streetlight, and most definitely not in the way that I still dream as wildly as I did at seventeen.

And yet, I’m dying. Blurry videos of lives streaming through my fingertips, for I used to be a part of those ever-so distant frames in time.

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