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our younger selves will stay behind, haunting the blind doorways and shelves on which we let ash from a final cigarette buckle in the crash. Then, flies begin knocking on doors the spiders spin and rust explores ... Still, they're happy where they are, waiting patiently as books-- abandoned there for good (the boys and girls we were) they make no noise ... Well, nothing we can hear.
http://saintagonist.livejournal.com/5727.html
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Published: 1 year, 7 months ago (Fri, 07 Dec 2007 09:40:10 PST); 477 bytes
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