(no subject)
the first chapters of lives almost made us give up altogether. pushed towards tired forms of self-immolation that seemed so original. i must, we must never stop watching the sky with our hands in our pockets, stop peering in windows when we know doors are shut. stop yelling small stories and bad jokes and sorrows, and my voice will scratch to yell many more, but before i spill the things i mean to hide away, or gouge my eyes with platitudes of sentiment, i'll drown the urge for permanence and certainty; crouch down and scrawl my name with yours in wet cement.