Shamelessly pink..shamelessly pink…shamelessly pink.
I make stories, I never write them. They are never true. Just demons I create to plague me later-days when I call on numbers I breathe, and no one answers.
And then begins the epic of apprehension, the possible romance of a grand loss. Just that some 48 unanswered calls later when the immensely significant other takes the call, the significance fades.
Unrest is beautiful.
Also, I noticed that I don’t search for a spare corner of a back page to spill these days, I grab my laptop and open a word document.
Ketamine I’m losing you
gradually.
“Come fill me again”
(And here’s the urge to write something more, to add a punctuation here, a phrase there, some conjunction somewhere, here’s the need for visible coherence
gradually.
“Come fill me again”
(And here’s the urge to write something more, to add a punctuation here, a phrase there, some conjunction somewhere, here’s the need for visible coherence
and what lies above is the abstinence, the document of deprivation)
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