British literature accompanies you tonight. Thoughts of the victorian era, Jane Austen, and your greasy hair.
Dirty hands, stained blue for 3 days with fan art. A cracked guitar and a leaf are your weapons of mass illusion. Despite my childish pout, you're hiding some more kindergarten expressions with ivy league ideas. Ideas you call to, preach to, plea to.
Your absence is a dark cave I haven't crawled from in days. Waiting for you to throw a rope, fashion a ladder, open your barred words to the light.
Food is scarce in such a dreary place, though gardens surround my blind eye for miles.
