And I am deeply flawed, run in trenches, deepened by pacing, burrowed by the wild animal of longing, day and night, to day again. And flowers grow, sometimes in spite of the fallow-looking soil. Seedlings of displaced affections and all manner of disregard to just enjoy. If I can... what else? Nothing.
Sleep now. Think, later. 
at 16:01
- Reposted from anonymous
- PenSword72 likes this
