Tastes like fresh air. Grass, smokes, chicken, wine, bottled beers and scary trees. Familiarity, comfort and a strange buzzing. Salvation is a little out of the reach at the moment, but that's a different story altogether. Unengaged = Thanks for fucking telling me. Tolling weekend; petty arguments, over-exaggerations and tense silence. Yes, no, maybe, I don't know. Tick tock tick tock. And as we spiraled down down down, all there really is to say is that MJ should have died in his prime. *cough cough sniff sniff. (Swine flu will kill us all) And somehow I am still wondering if I'm in this as much as I should be. So we're just missing another name, another label right. Convention was never our cup of tea, or mine anyway. And the more I think about or remember how suffocating it is (via parallel universes all across my social network), the closer the walls seem to close on me. Zoom zoom doom. Though I can now cross out the only thing on my before-we-leave list. I love Frolick. HEEHEE. And with no more money to hide behind, I can no longer pretend that they are both equally emotionally taxing. Doom.
How do I say I'm sorry
Cos the words are never gonna come out, now.
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