Some people look at the world and see junk in the randomness; I see possibility.
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I miss being your muse, and you being mine. It’s getting to the point where every little thing I do has taken on a sort of eroticness, because in my mind it’s all for you. The photos I take, the contrast of my pale pink against a crisp white wife beater, the lessons in submission. There is an inescapable desire to please you. I sleep with the windows open, the curtains open, my legs open. I’m too lazy to explain who I am now, but know that I am lost in my worship of the moon. 

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