im going to dry out internally.
so wait, did OJ do it?
man. remember when life was just a series of color connected to a certain feeling like a crisp november morning. it was windmills' dreamscene. a backyard with piles upon piles of past decades knickerbock and general clutter. the fluffy dog that bit your father but he wasnt hurt.
remember the cold morning nintendo? hardwood floors and the heat coming through the vents the wood remained cold.
remember sunny washed out days bikes,
and all we could do.
the adventure that existed in a group of bankrupt children and no real direction
the drain of the winter left one as one truly is.
is truly loneship.
heavy lids and yawning and my memories succumb to the dream.
dream is greater than solid hole.