Operetta Fountane
You'll be 27 someday. I don't know you. But I own a page of the diary of my love. It may be a setlist, but it's a page nonetheless, so I'll keep it secret like the things I think about when I'm in the shower, home alone, until I leave it all on your voicemail. In my room, it's a mess. I sleep on the couch downstairs or pile clothes like such, but it's still never comfortable. I've been rehearsing for you. Making faces in the mirror, dancing to [[[vvrssnn]]], staying positive, but I'm still fat. Well, I've got to go. Maybe I'll see you later. Thanks, sorry, mixtapes, shampoo, J.P. Licks, and drugz.