I ache as the butterflies from in my stomach rise up into chest and they are not butterflies anymore but, they are winged and have cocooned tightly around my heart and filled my chest with the weight of a thousand worlds and emptied my soul of every bit and drip. Dry and empty I am. For the self I once was died along with your love for me.
I miss the sound of your keys on my coffee table.
And on your way take your time to read what’s on the wall.
—The Von Bondies, Pale Bride
“Creativity is piercing the mundane to find the marvelous.”
Hey hey hey hey heya wont you come down? This isn’t our parade.