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sometimes I dream of this perfect autumn where everything is dying in exactly the right way, the kind where it's not hurting but it's going to sleep for a really long time, like running away from an air gun but realizing it's really not that bad but these shoes hurt my feet in exactly the right places and there will be nothing funny on television tonight so I'll reread everything I love again and my complexes are getting in the way of my future but I can't help if I'm peter pan because all I seem to ever want to do is live in a treehouse and never brush my teeth again because fuzzy is better than smooth anyway so I swim and I swim and I swim until I'm somewhere that no one's ever been and the leaves are so red and my sweater's so ratty but you need to wear things down for them to know the exact pigment of your skin and the bow of your bones and to know when a hug is too tight, even though it really never is except sometimes from my dad but that's besides the point.