sixtynine (re:#201)

She died today, and I wasn't there to hold her hand and I don't know if anyone was. All I had was the night-time walk through the suburbs in February that dried out my throat and my eyes and my heart.

There's nothing as desolate as the middle class at midnight.

Tiny rocks crunched under my sneakers and the hood of my jacket barely fit over my headphones and I'm talking to myself. It's like praying when you know there's no one listening.

And I'm telling myself some things that are true, and some things that are lies, and some things I can't tell apart. And I'm a plot desperately in search of some characters.