Everything is fine.
Winter is here, as are these sullen eyes, tired already of red and green.
The typewriter is cold; the ashtray is warm.
Everything is nothing. Everything everything.
It’s so… pretty.
Don’t speak to me of December.
This season to me is but a waking dream.
Unreal, unwanted
Vertigo, a 3 AM special covets me between sleep and wake.
Is any of this even real
I feel so pretty.
Life is so, so pretty.