Brooding boy,
how I read you like Karouac, and sip on you like Jack. Reversing words, moments, memories; leave you longing for what could be, what should be, what-ever. You look at me like I'm magic, You look at me like a lover. But I'm On the Road already, I promise I'm not looking back. Your cinematic theories and flattery; solidarity and security lack. And while our mind's can meet, our bodies, can not. And as you look at me like I'm magic, You're right - I've already forgot. I'm On the Road already, time, a peculiar thing. But one day she will look at you, and you'll know exactly what I mean.
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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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