Crazy dreams are whirling around me, fragmenting my sleep. Sleep. All I ever do anymore. No strength left for anything. I don't have the will to eat or talk to to friends or pick up a book or get online. I lay in my bed and let my mind wander aimlessly as I stare at my ceiling, hoping for a release to this empty uselessnes. I hope for a boy with shiny blue eyes and blonde hair to climb through my window and sit on my bed with a guitar, a lock of hair falling into his face,across his eyes. For him to play a few songs and then climb under the sheets with me and kiss me and hold me. For him to just understand me so completely, like no one else seem to can. For him to love me despite my milliontrillionbillions of flaws and insecurities. I hope for a friend to call me up and take me out to a night of fun and sweaty bodies and mosh pits and punk music and smashing guys and pot and laughter. I hope for a girl with black clothing and black makeup and wild colored hair and piercings to find me in my room and fall in love with me. To write poems and stories with me, to watch moulin rouge and grease and giggle at the love stories. To have her take me downtown and sit on the street where all the other punkgirls sit with there spiked and coloured hair and ripped jeans and joke around and eat candy, our hands intertwined through each other. I hope that I will all of a sudden be granted a surge of extra strength and energy and wake up to look in the mirrior and see something pretty, see something worth fighting for. I hope for a miracle.