(no subject)
Even his storybook fantasies ended in lonliness.
The clock sat steadfast, gently at eight fifty-five. Nothing could be heard but the sound of his keyboard, muffled by his own breathing. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than happiness. Nothing more than that breathing to stop.
Whats the point of writting anything anyways? whatever.
The clock sat steadfast, gently at eight fifty-five. Nothing could be heard but the sound of his keyboard, muffled by his own breathing. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than happiness. Nothing more than that breathing to stop.
Whats the point of writting anything anyways? whatever.