i won't let you hold my hand tonight.
Friday, Sept. 24, 2004
walking home, four oh four in the morning, with six to seven bushmills on my breath and not a soul in sight but two taxi drivers arguing on and on about the match a week or two ago, can send a chill up your legs as you drop your last cigarette into the gutter, and you begin to think of how much you rely on loneliness to falsify your convictions.