There is a girl. A girl I barely know. She is, a friend’s friend (acquaintance?) whom I do not know; merely connected in our anonymous internet age. Certainly, she does not recognise my existence. Certainly.

She is a product of our west-pining eastern culture. She is the postmodern daughter and she is defiant; she is new, she is different, she is uniquely her own.

Her struggles are not my own, her troubles are hers alone. They are not her parents’, but symptoms of her generations’.

She’s no mere experiment, she’s her own teenage creation. She sits alone with the other ones.
Her friends are her passions, her like-minded fellows.
She is
not a loner, oddball, outcast, misfit,
nor a girl
but a
person.

At that,
a strangely attractive person.

Was going to sleep last night when this, occured. Got up and scribbled in my notebook in the almost dark. Let’s discuss “Do you consider is pretentious to dissect your own work?”

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