(no subject)
i think of you almost as if wings were commonplace. common days are robbing of my inspiration. if i could reach deep enough into my chest, i could tell you all of my answers, all of my questions. i cant say how hard it is to find any words or air to speak them with. there is nothing to write about, everything is the same, nothing is anything. i would call, but i would wrather sleep, and spring time wasnt always like this.