(no subject)
Here we are inside this dance listening to Sting & The Police. The year is 1981. Strip away the shell from your egg carton eyes. Can't you see? The Astrology in her faulty footsteps tells everything. She makes compound words like second nature. When the tone grows low, the timbre solemn, the scent of gin and tonic grows obvious. We no longer have words to make this worthwhile. Your slurring buttercup has fallen over. Now we live inside this dance.
Your mother, upset by your truancy, banned you from the dance. We no longer exist.
Your mother, upset by your truancy, banned you from the dance. We no longer exist.