I am full to the brim with all these images of girls in fields, and boys with cigarettes; of forests I never went to, and lovers I never had, and sadness I never felt. I'm overflowing with the musings of people I don't even know. The very extent of my being is nothing but a product of the books and poems and songs and pictures I have come into contact with. Nothing inside me is original. I am a counterfeit; an imitation; a fraud- and I will never be anything more.