Florence was right when she said happiness is an extremely uneventful subject. No one ever told me being truly happy feels like you've reached the top
I have learned more from this world than to hide from the inevitable When the world goes red and the alarms blare their songs we listen
Maybe it’s hard to write about being happy because when it finally arrives at our door we’ve forgotten it’s journey, After All it’s all about the destination right? Or was it all just make believe Like that time you said monsters didn’t exist. Happiness is a ship built to wreck and most of us are to afraid to go down with it
I want to see what becomes of those crashing colours Do they collide and make something greater? Do the dog days really end?