What I found were bright spots, vague synchronicities and phony boys pretending to have a secret that they kept from all the rest. I thought your voice was a trumpet call, moving me to tears and itβs an odd feeling having watched the dawn and heard the nightingale. Did I like it? I certainly did not. Instead my heart unknowing reached for chaos.
Always write at midnight, gaily any scrap will do it seems I found her to be difficult, yet charming and a little doubtful, her lies smell of sweet cream and the sound of rain. Now, hush.