Alice, the alias, and the secret crush.
Like orange crush, falling into my glass from the imperfect 2 liter bottle. I am the air, squeezed out and surrendered, but in some sense, I am the glass. Filled with the bright orange liquid. The liquid will take on any shape it pleases, and it hurts sometimes. If the glass were to fall off of the table and smash into a million pieces, the orange soda would run away. The glass could only attempt to stop the puddle from running with shards laying there, useless. I would not be able to cup it, and hold it in myself. I would be forced to watch it leave. Perhaps leaving a bit of myself behind to embed in other people's feet.
They will suffer for my losses, although never on purpose.
This is the best way to explain it.
They will suffer for my losses, although never on purpose.
This is the best way to explain it.