My days are divided not by time, but by the rearranged thoughts that cross my mind. Or more like boldly bogart all reason and regularity. I am consumed. Not as lovers do in lovers eyes but as flys dive into quiet lights, face crumbling into the dusty expression of a recovering addict. Eyes ringed with red, always a look of pleading towards pastfulness. Long hours become the impossibility to hope for future happenings and life takes a back burner to farewell blues.
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