Hi, I'm Keiji Akaashi—I said that, didn't I? Yes, I know but I wanted to tell you once more after these weeks of sitting up talking to you, doing the same routine until we finished our project, making up excuses to still see each other after you were so determined to get me out the way. It's ironic. You'd think that a girl like you would see through people, having eyes that pierce through their anatomy of hints that tare practically speaking in the language of desperation as you nod, smile and continue to do as you wish. It's painful to see, I know his because I'm looking at you, once again, from the distance as you order our coffees from the guy you're screwing—Suna—Yes, I read your discreet messages of your nighttime plans once. He's smiling, picking out jokes to say as smooth as possible, in hopes of not embarrassing himself. He's cute, I see why you keep him around as you stuff your hands in your pocket with your eyes showing interest for his useless talking that he rarely does—I know this because I came here, plenty of times, ordering my French Vanilla latte and a small warm brownie to please my sweet tooth, watching him as girls wrote their numbers on dollar bills, making his job harder than ever before—Don't worry, I didn't approach him in ways that you wouldn't understand. I smiled, glanced a few times as we exchanged our stares until he approached me, giving me his number.

If I was psychopathic, I would've used that opportunity to gut everything about you from his body and mind. I would've fleshed out his brains, leaving him for the termites to eat after digging through those memories of you with my bare hands, soaked with his bodily fluids that would make good for my paint textures but I'm not. I befriended the boy, learning of him and his hobbies—A photography major who's nice, good with technology and with diverse music taste, almost perfect for you—I'm nice, I wave and I smile. I do this to everybody, whether they chew obnoxiously or have a pitchy voice that scratches my ears like a cat in a bad mood, clawing at the chalkboard until their nails are sharpened enough to dig into my veins like the hot acid shots college boys do at their sweaty frat parties.

Dear Muse, do you see him? He's glancing at me, constantly looking back at you. You're so bright but so dim, aren't you? He's perplexed, rattled as a poet would say but let me reassure you, I don't care for those beautiful eyes of his that can add ink to my body, leaving me with lifelong messages in scripts of ancient folklore because I'm too busy looking at your mannerisms as you speak to him—I want to evaluate each thing about you. I don't think it's love, I don't think it's infatuation either—If it was to be love, we would be in trouble and I would try my very hardest to get you to understand these love letters that I seal with wax and if it was to be infatuation, I wouldn't care so much about your presence or even be here right now—I'm being played, not by you but by my own head, aren't I?

However, you stop this question—as you always do—with the sway of your hips as you walk towards me, having a soft grin as you pass my beverage to me, allowing me to wave my hand before leaving your friend's job.

These are the top problems of having a muse at such a age of discovery in one's true art. It complicates things, it makes you think for the human life and not the life you create upon your canvas and it's a chance you may fall in deep despair for something that's too unrealistic to touch but what makes it worse is that my potential muse is an artist of many things—including their ways of getting one's attention.

This is the official diary of a liar's journey, featuring karma.