All the stories of love are just stories told by the old and young wienies in the loving room it's clear, with any sense at all, that love is just as watered down, dull, and ******* as all its users
days ago I trotted to my kitchen from my desk for a glass of water drinking only half and leaving the rest to bubble over and become stale now as I write the glass remains but is slowly fleeting
The apartment is not yet broken in a rice cooker softly steams on the counter there is grease splatter on the stove 12 pack of burgers $7.99 at the store one chair in the living room grandmas old sitting chair where she would knit hairspray stains on the back 2 bedrooms one with a bed one with nothing
childish games disguised as grownup work the things we all do for money and justification and purpose not coming from our own mind but others the greatest share game we were never ourselves but at least we shared alot
Certainty lies awake at night inside a lady second guessing the choices already made and the choices to come it wears so many living masks and even in the sunshine and happiness times and all the work that's been done is done with no thought answers negating answers direction for directions sake living for certainties place