Touching this paper again, reminds me of all the things I’ve done. When I go to bed at night, I still feel...empty. Anger, passion, emotions, all are fleeting. The only thing I’m left with is this quiet hollowness. An indifference that can’t seem to sit straight. It sits slumped, on its seat, but not touching his desk. His head is hung, staring off somewhere past his feet. Sometimes I wonder if it really matters if I close my eyes when I lay to rest. Open or closed, I don’t seem to get real sleep anyway. I can’t even remember my dreams anymore; my dreams make it worth going to bed. As I lay here I can feel the cuts on my feet. I often go out by my favorite tree, but I don’t bother with shoes. My lemon tree has thorns. I don’t mind the cuts on my feet, I hardly feel pain anymore. It’s the beginning of spring, and despite this, I don’t feel the joy and hope that follows this season. The only hope I’ve felt caught in my throat when I saw all the butterflies and dragonflies o