since the number one. Three? Heh.
Sometimes lonely is good, sitting in the middle of nowhere, firmly planted and grown by man in
the midst of everything, like the eye of a hurricane. Sitting, watching your breath curling out of
your lips & disappearing, listening to birds and things you somehow didn't realise still existed,
and sure - gotta leave soon, things to do and people, oh people fucking everywhere. Actually
people I want to see, some of them. Not at college. Stupid roundabouts, too fast being flung off
into all these things I just don't get. Into stupid, petty fucking fights, with grown men who
should know better, with her shadow. But there, it's gone. It's like a cold flannel when you're
burning up, or cold snow. Talking about nothing; dreaming about things and so many ideals,
wishing we were innocent again, maybe. Perfectly cold, perfectly so, crisped and clear and
lowered voices, don't want to disturb it. And I want to run away, back to it again. But escaping
for a while, it's good, he's right when he says that, as always . Sillily selfish, I want you to myself, I don't
want to share you with them, old or new. Run away with you, escape somewhere like that.
Too colourful and close and intimate. And thats what I want, except I seem to have to wait, but I don't know why..
I'm not good at this sort of thing,
too weak, you always say.
Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: