My life in rooms, and your life in books, and somewhere between, thats where we meet. Everything is a like a photograph, we'll hang it on the walls, picture frames and post cards, we're in love, with everything , that is lost. You and I know, that there is no god, so we clean the house, we go out for drives. And you go now to your books, and I to my rooms, and everything is so soft, When we are , hiding out, in these rooms.
1 comment:
this is a really cool piece of writing. i write myself. keep up the good work!
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