She picked up habits like they were memory stones (ones that remind you of places you've been) and pretty soon, she was sleeping like her mother and smoking like her daddy. Her fingers scraped crumbly-textured walls as she watched herself do things like drink sour milk and be a lover to people who slept with their backs to her. The future promised floral prints and sinking toe nails into wet, squishy mud.
'I'm not scared of forever'
'And I don't think there is such a thing'
She often overlooked his short-sighted pessimism and logic because she knew happier times were just around the corner. They just had to get there. And she didn't care where she was going or what was going to happen, or if they ever got there in the end at all. As long as he was riding shotgun.