Regina Spektor
July 12, 2010
It’s strange to think I live in someone else’s journal. I assess others with rare hesitation, but to be simplified myself from a life form to a name—a factual detail that carries little significance other than my having been there, in that document-worthy moment—can feel unjust. My actions and intentions in that place paralleled nothing with this other writers’, so he cannot write history for me.
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