You and me. Make sense when we don't want to.
And that has been the beauty of this madness.
Soda bottles play our faces in an endless prism. Revolving. They get scattered through your strumming notes. Little puddles of dark opals. Ice. Gleams through the sun.
More faults, less corrections. More gazing, less talking.
We never emerge to appear.
I still lie in the same curtain.
Come inside a smokey room. With a paper and pen. Incense and cigarettes, flowers and water. They all go together, too well.
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