They're hunting. You're a deer. I wrote this on a night
there stood a hundred clouds in the sky, and I,
customarily, with a thousand words speeding past
eachother in my mind like a colony of ants, said
little. Every word that came out of your mouth
voiced defeat. Your words spilled straight from your
mouth onto your tongue as if somebody had spilled
a cup. Your feelings gushed out a constant rate and it
still wasn't enough. I had waited for this. And yet,
like a deer in the headlights, I stood still. The
opportunity to speak the truth passed me by, mocking
me on its ways out. Now I sit here, typing.

Has she not
told you? Has nobody told you? Should I tell you that
the second you stand up to perform, everyone in the
room with a lick of sense experiences euphoria? I'm
only scared for you. Have you ever gone hunting with
someone, and they've spotted a deer, and you see the
beauty in this creature and you silently hope to God
that the bullet misses? That night was full of a
million wishes, but there were only twelve stars.
Eleven of them were in the sky. I can't tell you what
to do. Why do we, as deer, live in the backyards of

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