Spanish music pours in my spring window, just became dark. In and out, reeling.
My senses calculating data in such peculiar ways.
I love it and hate it all simultaneously.
All the contrived notions, all the pretense and vanity, personas gotta load on and talkin that **** again, the children got lost, got old and believed again.
If i didn't laugh id probably just cry.
Its just a flaw in the design, to never be satified, no peace of mind.
To seek forever without knowing the question, fielding through the minutia
If I said I love you, most of that isnt true.