quinta-feira, 12 de janeiro de 2012
Grace, please come home. Come through these last smoked cigarettes, ashes of time on the table. These ladies i so much deceive, lying in my bed, bitter tries in search of an exit door. Tell me, there is such a thing? Kisses i hate, the night breeze brings desire. Desire, what a joke. My attempts are echoes of my own voice, shattering these glasses without water. Things i too much apply myself in i don't intend to endure them anymore. Cigarettes of time on my table.