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Out of context: Reply #960
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- Gorbie0
The fog is thick like soup and the moisture collects on the limbs of these tall sycamores dripping down, patting the ground steady but it still startles me. had a smoke on the porch, my face lit up like a dragon in the arctic. i'm getting those flashes out the corners of my eyes again, and i know how to fix it but it's like duct tape on a wound and i'm so scared of dying these days. i look both ways twice when i cross the street. this glass of wine is meant to end the night and i filled it up high in a vain attempt to make it my last. i'll lay down next to her and wonder what she's dreaming. she always remembers them, and that's why i need her. even if her stories annoy me... i just don't have that. i've got a busy weekend ahead. the fresh air will do me good. sonoma and more wine. i hope i don't have to pretend i'm having a good time. i'm so sick of that shit... who am i doing it for?
raviolis were what's for dinner. the kitchen is filthy and i'm not tired. the grass is growing though... so i can't complain.