“No one remembers I’m alive.”
Her statement echoes in my brain. It’s a play on my words from one of my most infamous interviews. Everyone knows I’m alive.
One is as bad as the other. In a fishbowl, attention limits you. With one snapshot or word, you’re either loved, admired, scorned, or hated. Sometimes, it’s a combination. Solitary, though, isolation is the enemy.
Something’s broken in us. Me. Her. My fragments feel irreparable. Is she so shattered, too?
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