you words are cold on white screens, dear plaid eyes. I wish you'd breath more life into it.
the basement is warm as any carpeted cinderblock could be. nintendo creeping into your fingers while Kraft singles melt into their plastic without anyone noticing but we eat anyway and can't tell the difference.
one day my 15,000 page autobiography will be found clogging my gutters and you'll wish so bad that you could read it through the water damage
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