Life is like this greyish purple sky, - or is it smoke? - a strange and foreign concept, Life here in the most vivid and true sense of the word. The everlast of screen-bright polaroid collections and radio station lovesongs play up the impossibilities of any kind of breathe and let go, of give yourself kindly, irremediably and unbridled.
But no white plastic frame can tame a nose's redness, from the sun's kiss or a frosty, tender January bite. Love-in-the-making is an art, so I'll try not to lose it.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 7:49 PM UTC
Life is like this greyish purple sky, - or is it smoke? - a strange and foreign concept, Life here in the most vivid and true sense of the word. The everlast of screen-bright polaroid collections and radio station lovesongs play up the impossibilities of any kind of breathe and let go, of give yourself kindly, irremediably and unbridled.
But no white plastic frame can tame a nose's redness, from the sun's kiss or a frosty, tender January bite. Love-in-the-making is an art, so I'll try not to lose it.
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