Friday, June 15, 2012


Eight miles, homes. Eight fucking miles: Two north, two south, turn around and do it again, sweat pouring off me — God, I wish it was cold enough to wear a muffler — as good-luck crickets chirped to keep me moving and Eminem got angry in my ears:
My defenses are so up, but one thing I don't want
is pity from no one, the city is no fun
There is no sun, and it's so dark
Sometimes I feel like I'm just being pulled apart
From each one of my limbs, by each one of my friends
It's enough to just make me wanna jump out of my skin ...
It was the middle of the night before I finally stopped and changed out the music to Passion Pit. And then I fell exhausted into my little bed and dreamed a stupid, sweet little dream about a seraph.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

You go, bad ass!