Something I found, written in blue Gelly Roll pen, from when I was around 15 or 16. It was a writing excerise:
I am thinking of summer, the heat, the frangrance, the music. And what will become of it. Will it be like summers past, or will it be almost grown up just like me? I don't care to relive a past summer of someone before.
I am not thinking of the person who's been on my mind, haunting my thoughts, my dreams, my cares.
I know books. The words. The plots. The smell. I don't know feelings.
I don't know real feelings - feelings are nothing.
Love, a verb, is something.
Writing is only a feeling, a whim.