Spawled on my floor, I have so many other things to do, a paper, some calls, but all I really care about is you. Robert is crooning at me, speaking of his pictures. I am jealous, I have none. I threw them all away during a spring cleaning session in October. My thoughts are grey. It looks like rain. I'm thinking...if I could sing the song of me, who would I serenade? Would it be you, with your apathetic, drug induced smile, not really listening,asking about what the bass like is going to sound like...Or you, With your words that remind me of my favorite porcelain tea set that I'm always trying to recreate. Thats what I see you as, your beauty compensates for the understated struggle working with you causes. Or maybe to myself. A reideration of everything I ever knew. A double spouted pitcher with nothing to pour but applied science and art history.Birth sign: Not entered
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