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It's all wrong. Like a mirionette in a dusty old theatre, half the strings broken, waiting for someone to come along and give it life and purpose again. But there is no one coming because it has been forgotten. A creature of a long forgotten past. No ones there, but still we wait, with only the spiders to keep us company. Slowly wasting away.

Forever waiting. Forever wanting.

It's hard not to get lost in the woods. You become so focused on your feet that you forget the world around you. You will look up every so oft, but it always feels the same until you realize what has happened. The world is different here. Turn around and try to retrace your footsteps. One step, two. You're off the beaten path, too busy watching your feet. It's darker now in those suicide woods and no one will be there to find you.

Where are your footsteps? Where are you?

Things are difficult with no one to turn to. When all your friends left long ago. It's incredibly taxing on ones mind and soul to have people constantly coming and going. Knowing that the only time they want you is if they want something. And it's another strip of flesh you take with you when you've left me again.

The frequency is less now. But the pain feels just as fresh.

The nightmares are coming more and more often now. I can no longer see and it's getting harder and harder to breath.