YOU HAVE TO FIRST, WASH, THE OLD BELONGINGS YOU GET FROM THE SPECIAL PLACE. ONLY THEN CAN YOU CLAIM IT TO BE YOUR OWN. BUT THE SCENT NEVER GOES AWAY DARLING.
i could try and try, try my very hardest i will, tried my very hardest i have, but i can't pretend i'm someone i'm not. after all, we shall not call a peach a plum and a plum a peach. thank you you're very kind, but i'll sing myself to sleep tonight. most of the time, i write words and make sentences, but i do not know where they come from. maybe inside of me, sometimes inside of you. i'd like to think i write what we all feel, must i do it in metaphor? it gets tiring, but it turns the ugly into a butterfly. most of the time my words mean nothing as much as they mean something. those are the same things; nothings and somethings. most of the time, you are merely reading my endings to my senses and my beginnings of dreams.