When you let dust collect on what once was your escape...it may not sound like it used to when touched, but quiet solitude becomes a beautiful serenade of memories bouncing off keys with an 8-year-olds finger prints hanging on for dear life.
I'm a friend who listens to the past tell her everything doesn't exist. what you see on a daily basis is a figment of your imagination.
I guess there is nothing to look forward to, in life and after.
in your mind.
but not in mine.
No comments:
Post a Comment