The way you can't look at me, 'cos I'm not the little girl I used to be; your tired recollection of each gene in recession; your knife heart, sad heart, raised by a bad heart--
but I decided itβs worth battling your droopy-eyed disapproval; but I want to run into this fog with my arms open wide; but I always thought Iβd rather burn in the fire than die in my sleep.