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There’s a certain kind of sadness that doesn’t really make you cry or sigh but just leaves you making lonely noises when everyone else is still high on graduating a school they made up. A sadness that doesn’t remind you of the past or the future but stabs you with moments you’ll never even have. A sadness that you always go to because it’s the only place you know that isn’t too uncomfortable with new colors or foreign accents. That kind of sadness is not of being alone or lonely but of being in the crowdest theatre and still feeling as abandoned as the playwright’s dead grandfather. And it’s not your fate, and it’s not your choice. It’s a state of being, out of your control.