Do I want to know more? Yeah, I want to know every last detail of her life. Of who she is. It’s a hunger. An urge, and she must be craving the same from me. We’re the same. But we’re different too. Our differences are like unopened books begging to be consumed. As far as I go, I’ve never been read front-to-back by anyone, but I’d check out a library card just to read all of her. She’s the writer, though. I’m sure her insides are a whole lot more eloquent than whatever’s living in me.
