I wish people could see the world as I see it right now. Bleak British fog and thundering rain grazes The bus windows, as we enter the seventh hour.
Ryan Adams is singing Sylvia Plath, as rapeseed fields Threaten to bring colour to the north. The pills are Working, and I’d cry for joy or for poverty if I could.
This isn’t the spring I was promised, but that’s okay. I have learned that a promise is but a sincere lie, And expectation can only offer far-off feelings and
No time. I’ve stopped throttling the goose to demand My supper. I have stopped walking through the rain And complaining about the weather.