What ?

Writing ?

Have I ever done something like that ?

Of course not. Leave me alone.

My sole solace is silence.

And you're disturbing it.

Leave me to my quiet delight.

A story about of me ?

About of itself ?

You're kidding, right ?

That doesn't exist.

Because neither I or the story, do.

This is a mess. That's what it is.

A mess.

As such, I would like you to stop talking about of it.

I'm talking about of you, the one who whispers inside

Ideas seeming good yet with no substance behind.

I don't want to write. I didn't. Stop it.

What ? Writing ? Stop it.