All I know of him are snippets of vague information that leave large gaping holes. So I fill these holes with whatever I want and suddenly he becomes this admirable man who loved me immensely and whom I would never disappoint. And it doesn’t bother me the slightest that this person never really existed. I’ve always been perfectly content with the illusion of company that my imagination would create. It’s always much easier to invent people and realities than it is to accept them for what they really are. Does this make me a false creature?
Wednesday, 20 November 2013
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