P.S. It's not schizophrenia, it's creativity, there is a difference. My voices go away after I let them tell their stories.

I am the collector of the past.

It surprised me that I was already using the past tense. People I knew. As if I didn't know them anymore.

Zac dangled his legs off the edge of the building, hanging onto every word I said as though I were some old time bard telling an epic war tale. I tried to be as detailed as possible, and I knew that I was doing a good job when he'd lean back and shut his eyes. He'd breathe slowly and watch the pictures that I painted for him with my words. He'd smile, not a cunning toothy one, but a sincere smile that comes only from being truly happy. I'd sit across from him and just watch his reactions. We could be up there for hours. I would see the sunset across his face and be as captivated with his skin's changing colours as he was with my everyday stories. That's when I learned to dislike winters.

Since when do you look out for me? You really have grown up.""Had to happen sometime," I say.

You're not broken. You're perfect. And when you get to get away from these kids, you might finally have a good man.

I have led you down a road of deception just to correct you and make you look like an uneducated ass