| better words . . . . here there and everywhere |
Sometimes I think I could run away, for real, forever. I don't think I'd miss them. I wonder where this apathy comes from. Surely there was a time when I had real friends and real conversations. Maybe if things had turned out differently. Maybe if I could shrug it off. Maybe if I could forget that half the time I think they're tedious cynics who enjoy tearing each other down and mocking one another. The windows are opened wide tonight. There's a steady draft that keeps finding its way to me. I haven't felt this hollow in a while. |
better places . . . . over under and through |