prettylittle, 19
In the middle I spied him. How do I. Remember it an early morning escape, ascended from all between this and them in the dark. Driving that night, in from the drunk-stench. But now as always, aphonia. Your long journey home with poolstick as prop. I suppose this loss of voice, I think it was explanation. The only song is organic, and we were. I feel like I recognized him. He looked on my nerves, my functional disturbance. Driving down, that’s worse than staying nervously around, wondering symbolic. The vocal organs, late at night.
About this, persuade me from the feigned passionate speechlessness.
