I'm starting to hate pieces of memories with no explanation. images of places that I've never seen, and smiling faces that I've never met. I think in words, I can't see colours or shapes other than their definitions. that hollow blip that something's registered: it does more than echo around my head; it finds home and bores in deep, regardless of the damage it's doing. xx
/ about.
my fingers and the moon may be interlinked at some level, and it's more efficient to be able to tell them apart, but it's all romanticism.