every man i have taken is dead to me. They're dead in the back of the room and no smoking sidealleys, handing a bag of ****** like 'here,' cigarette-in-mouth induced lisp They're dead in my best friend's bed or at least used to be lying spent and of course not thinking of me to only say how they dislike. Peculiarities like: I wish he'd grasped my hand as he pushed in and effort face and all had hurriedly torridly muttered "i hate you, babygirl" because I love to get my fortune told. What is the future? Peculiar because the other one didn't talkΒ Β while high and especially not then, I would love to inherit his estate of drugs and kissing my held hand walking home at 9pm. I only cried for one of course and barely at that. In this life,i am beginning to realize certainties.