It's been x years, y months and z days since we met. and longer since we spoke to each other at all. And still I hang over your every word. . and it fucking hurts when i read your short prose. and I know I don't deserve that trashing. the oblique references; the colours, the storm, the stars -- do we know where the fuck we stand?
Waiting in Copenhagen. for my head to be sawed off. again.
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