engine driver lyrics
"And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones." - The Decemberists.
Shedidit.
She finally ruined the fantasy, much to her chagrin. She touched it with her fingers, caressed it with her words and it spoiled away with her touch, peeling away and became what it was.
Just a plain old dank laundry room, a sleep deprived girl with dirty clothes who was lonely and needed to meet someone.
She kept him in her head, building him up, making him perfect. She erased his face because it was beneath him. He was far too superior to be placed in a shell of a physical body.
But then she came back to the world, eating an ice cream bar in the chilling, biting air, wearing only the thinnest white tank top, the air smelling of refried beans and other greasy food. And she met him with her greasy fngers. And he became imperfect.
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones." - The Decemberists.
Shedidit.
She finally ruined the fantasy, much to her chagrin. She touched it with her fingers, caressed it with her words and it spoiled away with her touch, peeling away and became what it was.
Just a plain old dank laundry room, a sleep deprived girl with dirty clothes who was lonely and needed to meet someone.
She kept him in her head, building him up, making him perfect. She erased his face because it was beneath him. He was far too superior to be placed in a shell of a physical body.
But then she came back to the world, eating an ice cream bar in the chilling, biting air, wearing only the thinnest white tank top, the air smelling of refried beans and other greasy food. And she met him with her greasy fngers. And he became imperfect.
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