So did we.
There's something growing in the attic worth all the cracks in the steps and advertisement of stripped paneling to deter you from entering, flowers spill toxic scents to trap every wanderer with lapses in imagination and covet steep losses of intention. Those stings seem something more brutal than your taste smeared across my teeth, carbon copied to mend wounds of any soldier lost in that haze. Waking up never had so many implications, wishing in wells just deep enough to drown someone that shallow in showers of wasted time and acceptance speeches used to absorb the carelessness of news papers held so high the text all but evaporates and is sent back to earth with the rain. Stilts are customary, to blame for malignants on the softer sides of me. Look in those eyes and explain that there was no other choice, turning tables for anyone that can stand to smile back at this pair of crooked lips, turning colours for anyone that could accertain the difference between hot and cold without loss of momentum. This was a trainwreck twenty minutes too late, keep favoring that right side so we know where to put the knives, and how deep to set them.