I ran from all of you as hard and as far as I could, but the past has its little claws, it’s has dragged me back
How ordinary and how strange life is. And how delicately poised
There’s a lot of noise but people don’t really say much
No one’s racist any more
I’m sick of Marvel running the world
it’s the nature of news, especially bad news, that it wants to be passed on, it desires transmission like a virus
It happened at the time maaaaannnnnnnn
her husband gives her a hug, he’s pretty sure that’s the required gesture at this point. Astird looks pale and weak so he decides that a cup of tea with sugar might be the correct next step, and shuffles off to the kitchen in his long johns to make it, failing to see that his wife finds herself in the middle of a storm
Inducing paranoia
No, he doesn’t hear. Nothing will reach manie again. Although he lies at the middle of the scence, none of it exists for him, not the hosptial, the bed, the curtain, his son, and certainly not the words that are being spoken to him, they are not where he is. Though where he is is harder to describe
My life is a hashtag 