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Thursday, July 16, 2009

Hello there young magician.

Your job, to con the audience. Plenty proud of it, until someone sees through your tricks. Even till then, you'd try to distort the truth, and pretend what just happened didn't happen. What, do I look like a fool to you? So, in order to avoid a temper, you pretend like there was no show. So in future, it's gonna be all "I knew you'd flare up, so I didn't tell you" for every secret that you keep, and I find out. That's a sorry excuse, one which you've achieved tier 1 in usage.

And, guess what, I'm sorry for blatantly getting angry too. I'm sorry for blatantly being exposed to your facades. I'm sorry that I have to blatantly tell you, I don't trust you anymore.

Teach me, how to trust someone whom sacrificed it, whether it's little things, or big things, time and time again, each time saying sorry for it. It's like having nothing to show for your effort, nay, honesty. I can't look you squarely in the eye. It's like, each time I know something is wrong, but yet you will not tell me. It will always be, because I might get angry. Because I might get hurt. Because I might leave you. You are drifting further and further away from me, and God knows how I can live with a stranger in the house. I'm trying, I think. But I don't know what is enough, and what is too much.

Soon enough, this cliff will end. I have limits, so do you. And I have needs, I am human. All I ask is that you could feel how I feel. But that's asking for too much, isn't it?

Sigh, I don't know what to do anymore.



Prologue
ANTHEA
15/10/1989, into fast cars, black/silver/grey, good foie gras, poker, a degenerate gambler. Hooked on appealing visuals and in love with the world's most retarded poker player, Lance.

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