You came back to push me again. You look old, strangely like your mother. You look older than me, but maybe I look old, too, and don’t know it. I don’t belong in your high society, you’ve made that pretty clear. I’m not good enough for you, talented enough for you, an artist like you. But where I belong is clear to me – hovering lined paper, making an atmosphere, letters fences structuring a world all my own. You came back to remind me what I’m worth – so thank you. Now, get the fuck out.

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