i'm sneaking around this wet city, stealing kisses that were mine a long time ago. This city is not real, and I am living up to its expectations. It has many, albeit bittersweet.
I hate it when you sing, by the way. A writer, distressed in the dark, a musician, struggling with his out-of-key note. both ill-equipped where their voices are concerned.
there is no easy way out of this, and i will never admit to having an escape route till the fire of my flesh dies down.