Writing

Peter spends his whole day thinking of something to write, whether it's good or bad, long or short, strong or weak. He feels that no matter what, someone WILL read it eventually.... Eventually. He's sad all the time and if he ever feels happy, it doesn't last very long, something always comes up, something always changes. He's fed up with the all the bullshit. In the winter time, the bitter cold gives him a rush, a chill down his spine that brings him back to life, if only it could be cold ALL the time. He feels stronger, faster, and somehow, smarter, he thinks better. So here's Peter, writing all his sorrows down, all his memories, all his dreams, just so some ungrateful prick can read it. well you know what Peter says... "Fuck you all!" But he knows it doesn't matter, so he's still going to keep writing.