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I'm writing you. Yes, I am writing you. I am creating you, I am creating your world, your personality, your heart, your soul, your name, and your life. Every word I write defines you, and those words can change with the simplest decision. I can make you tall or short, happy or sad, outgoing or shy, loving or hateful. It's all up to me. I'll start by giving you a name.

You are... Bosh, out of lack of creativity. Maybe I'll change your name later, maybe I won't. It's up to me. You are a male, age... 27. You are pale and somewhat pudgy, but you have a great outlook on life. Unless I change that. I can bend your personality to my will. I can do anything to you and your world. Anyhow, you are Bosh, a 27-year-old generally happy guy. You are a struggling artist living by yourself in a low-quality apartment. You don't have many friends, but even so, you find a way to stay happy with the way things are.

Your only real friend is a picture of one of your old high school buddies, Nicolas. He died of cancer a few years back. No, scratch that. He was hit by a bus last week. Or maybe he was hit by a bus a few years back, or maybe he died of cancer last week. No, let's just say he went missing a few years ago. That creates a nice element of mystery and sadness.

Bosh, you live in New York City. The busy, noisy streets keep you up at night. You haven't slept in days. More often than not, you wish you had others to keep you company. You don't even have a computer. Despite your cheerful appearance, you are an introvert. You struggle with basic conversations with strangers. With anyone, really. Bosh, you are depressed deep under that toothy smile. No one knows it, because no one cares about you enough to look for the sadness beneath the happiness. But that's okay, because no one would miss you if you...

Bosh, you aren't Bosh anymore. Now you're me. You're me, writing about you and... me? Well, Bosh. I mean, me. I can't change myself through writing about myself, so that sort of eliminates the purpose of this. So, I'll write about myself, in second-person narrative instead.

You are Winston. A fourteen-year-old writer, who washes dishes at a restaurant called Hofbrau. You generally look at the glum and dark side of life, and you cannot talk to people easily, and you often make a fool of yourself in social situations. Because of this, you enjoy secluding yourself from others. You don't love many, but your close friends are an exception. You would do anything for your friends. Among all, you love one person more than anyone. Her name is Evelyn, and she lives all the way across your country. Interestingly, you share many personality traits with her, which makes the two of you a fitting couple, despite the great distance between you two. You also like filming. Filming anything. There are no limits. Writing and filming are some of your favorite activities.

But you, Winston, are like Bosh. You feel ignored by many, you feel that your talent (if there IS any talent) is acknowledged by very few. You are an introvert, and you don't trust others easily because you are so easily manipulated, and you have been manipulated in the past. Winston, you aren't me. I mean, you aren't fiction. That's not what I mean either. I started this out writing a fictional character, and now this is me. Bosh, Winston, who? I think I lost myself while writing this.

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