When I ask for a story, its not because I need a distraction. It's because inside, I'm a kid with a painful attachment to transporting my mind somewhere it is safer to be. Your words, treat me like cages, they throw in some lies to fill up the pages but that's okay because its been days since I've felt this whole. When I'm left to close my eye lids and think about the memories you describe its a feeling like that of a thousand suns. Taking a world that isn't mine and making it mine. Throwing away all concepts of time and telling my brain "No." this is happening right now. I don't want to open doors to other people lives just to make it easier to ignore mine. But my childlike tendencies lead me to always believe that a story makes everything better. So when I ask you for a story, know that I'm stealing it to keep away in a box labeled, 'this is what life is supposed to be'. Because my memories are shattered. My feelings are broken. So tell me a story.