Sloane, [DISCONTINUED]

❝I've spilled all these meaningless words across a page, in hopes that it'll get me somewhere. Well they've definitely gotten me somewhere; I've finally washed those sheets, Sloane. Your scent is finally gone, and I think it's time to move on.❞

In which a tired man writes hopeless letters to the woman that holds his heart, the same woman he drove away. The thoughts and confessions of an unshaven writer whose lungs ache from city smog and whose eyes water from lack of sleep.