play: Sept. 22, 2002 (7:30 pm)

and i wasn't content when he was faking. (when was he faking?) i don't expect that from you, who's everyword sounds like the comlete truth. but i can stil hope the truth is more than it appears. why do i?

i can't deny that it still feels nice to have our legs touching in a dark theater. i can't pretend that doesn't make me feel better.

i've realized it's not someone to be introverted with. it's someone to help you resist. everything you hate. (even your complacency). we wouldn't sit in a bed and talk about how we were better. yeah, the play still makes me cry.

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