Hindered by sober restlessness. Submitting to the amber crutch. The theme in my aching prose. Fantasizing the sight of Manhattan; that pour of a bitter red being that escapes a thin frame. The rebirth of mutual love. The slipping on gloves to lay tenderly.
"I'm dying." - "Is it blissful?" "It's like a dream." - "I want to dream."
Гуру Песен