I like loading
And the faint sounds in the distance
And the breif whispers to keep me cold company
I like things I don't recognise
Styles I step on
I like far away
I hate him
I want my eyes to be different
I hate how polite he looks
I want to rip his eyes out and replace them with just the pupils and the cornea and the parts I like
I want him to be parts I like
But he never is
Whenever I'm convinced he will be what I ask
He waddles out, all scrunched up, not wanting to step around too much in case his footsteps are too loud, god I hate him