[ My own hair in my own food, damn it ]
Butterscotchtapewormhole-in-one, two, three hundred and sixty-five days a yearbookmarkdownsyndrome. /// Hugs, high-fives, hand shakes, and a little bit of dap. See you around. /// Ham and eggs muhfucka. /// Some of them talk themselves stupid. Their inability to answer a yes or no question or the dumping of unnecessary personal information, which in the beginning is slightly relevant, but quickly cascades onto a pile of “wait what were we talking about?”, reminds me of how sometimes when thanked I forget to say “you’re welcome.” /// He thinks of himself first, very little consideration for others. She revealed more about herself during the moments she thought maybe he wasn’t listening, but it was at that moment when he was most invested. He believes in god, and will practice…. good for him. She talks so convincingly about the bullshit she knows nothing about, so does he. I admire that a little bit, I too sometimes believe them, and then remember, they probably don’t know. I’ve never seen him smile so big and his thoughts are in the right. She is clearly happier. /// There is nothing she likes more than that feeling of walking slowly down the streets, after a long day of work, feet tired but excited for the gradual pace, as the humidity carried by the breeze wraps itself around every part of her exposed limbs. It doesn’t happen often here, but when it does we know it. She’s happier. It makes me wonder what sort of nostalgic feeling that must be providing her with. Who was she with? What did they talk about and for how long? It had to be something like that and better. // My head hurts.
Blind Willie Johnson - Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground