Every word I'm trying to write feels contrived. Or maybe I'm just tired and stressed and a weird version of lonely that I am severely not ok with. Every metaphor feels reached for and foreign on my tongue. Then again, I doubt that it's new or fascinating that another twentysomething is having an existential crisis. But it feels important. It feels big. And I miss you. All of you. And I miss the words in my own head as much as I miss yours. I'm still here. The here is just very flexible and strange.