... dinner.
I sit, thinking of things I could draw in the frost, messages I could leave in the condensation or signs I could leave in that window on a sunny day. The candle is another useless metaphor, so I won't bother. I remember days of building sculptures with condiments, making faces with sugar and pepper.
(short today. I'm involved in a torrid book affair, don't expect much until I've turned the last page.)
(short today. I'm involved in a torrid book affair, don't expect much until I've turned the last page.)
1 posts
hey mrs. popular.
(ps. don't make fun of me, i don't have any friends)
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