I nearly died this morning. I woke up on my floor instead of my bed, where I slept yesterday in my good senses. There's a circular mark on my neck. Someone tried to wind a rope around my throat. Clearly, I'm not dead yet. I think they wanted to shut me up. I feel like a mute now. They took away my pens, Broke my pencils, Burnt my notes, Buried my journals. Thanks to the hitman fiber wire trick, I can't breathe now, Neither can I write. Where am I supposed to dump my sadness now? They were me.
I write when I can't breath.