(no subject)
You begin to look like death. Begin to look like you don't care what you look like and you were going for that. The years can't stand up anymore and pool in the bottom like glass in an ancient window. Something has soured. You are creeky and quiet with comrades, and just this much more charming for acquaintances in the street. Friendly with a handshake, you lose words for old friends. Only a place is holding you. You could pull all the new shit anywhere, but you're here to find what you've found you've pushed out. It begins to remake you as you made it.