a month, in letters

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐

You know, and do know, some things like the plot of a storyline was planned. In this case, my whole existence is planned. I am a typed out word, strewn to create a letter, my creator, a cruel being. Because not only did they give me the inability to experience a world, they made me determine my own thoughts. Even that is not entirely mine either. So what is mine? Or rather; what can I say belongs to me? This space? Consciousness? My existence? Was it all really mine? Or was it all yours? After all, without a doubt I was created for you (a romantic saying, yet with these circumstances I am sure you can feel a chill, not those you would get with fluttering butterflies; but those with fear.)

Something - along the lines of unconditional would no doubt, give you fear.