tired came quickly.
i become bored with no real reason, and i try to open my life to the stars.
instead i end up in circumstance with nicotine stained fingers and no money to speak of. it just makes me want to go to bed. it all makes me want to not wake up again.
open to who happened to who, and what happened when, and how it happened to all of you ... i put my head under the covers and wait for the storm to pass.
you're all just victims of my story, dreams that never happened. i don't want to move my arms anymore.
photography becomes a job, writing becomes a hobby, and selling my sweet smile to whomever wants to buy it is an end justifying nothing.
we all hate when the brightest fail, and we all hate to see them go. asking ... screaming ... why? piecing together what they left us and who they made us, we go to bed early and never get up again.
i'm too tired to knock on your door, and i can't find the will to dial your number. so if i'm sleeping when you get here, climb into my bed gently and we'll talk a little before it all hits.
