Wandering about like a listless soul,
she travels against time, relentless in rewind. I watch her speak with the wicked slow, she doesn't even think, she won't ever know. What have you made of this map, crossing out every way to go, when I'm just trying to leave, but she won't ever know. Millennium's ahead of the moment she calls now, whispers the excuses, but the denial screams loud. The burning of her bruises, and the dead calm in her eyes, flash before me for a second, like I don't see the disguise. What have you made of this map, crossing out every way to go, when I'm just trying to leave, but she won't ever know. Cause she doesn't even think, and she won't ever know.
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Sydne Kilberg"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something." Archives
February 2016
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