Walking home, it looked like the sky could have been painted, by Raphael or Michaelangelo, I don't know enough about painters. It was beautiful though, and I kept looking at the sun, even though I really knew I shouldn't. I could see the silhouette of the spider trees, climbing all over the sky and the orange. And I was walking past the churchyard, thinking about you and I thought maybe those black, spidery fingers were the souls of dead people climbing up to somewhere, right across the sky, it was pretty and it wasn't cold. The goldy-green empty wreckage of lives which seeped away so long ago, it's really so beautiful and standing watching you there, waiting for you to fall, sometimes appealing, wanting to so badly, and sometimes aching for it.
Yesterday I could have left and never come back, in fact I wanted to. But today, I felt wanted, and that's pathetic isn't it? But I tasted it and I wanted more of everything, from everyone because I need you all to be there and it's why I act like I do, and in turn, why I push everyone away. I don't understand what's wrong with me.

And all I can do is try,

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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