2003-11-03| 10:58 p.m.

I think we were friends on the infrequent occasion that we saw each other. Except for one day. Two young girls sitting in the shade of two very old and large trees. I was mad at you and I told you I didn't like your shirt. The simplicity of youth.

Fast forward and I come to hear of you. Barely younger than me, living a life with so much privilege, and you've been raped, beaten and used. Come to find you living in one of those "schools," if by school they mean correctional facility. The only explanation they give as to why it's you and not me is that psychologically you're a follower.

You've used, been used, run away, been found in alleys, and all they say is that you're a fucking follower.

What let you derail and what always keeps my wheels spinning on the same track?