an "i'll see you later," with the wind in my face. and it tastes like forever, the wind doesn't leave a trace. something... to leave your mark in, it might as well be me. hoping the road we traveled on wouldn't end here.
everybody out of the water. last one out is bantha fodder. i can't remember a year as cold as last september.
white board, wiped clean, off your nosebleed.
