out of the junk, i pull you dear prophet of my days, not to abide by the fruit you gave me, and changed me into, without knowing i’d lose my taste.
now i’m obliged to cherish the light that i miss, now i’m compelled to miss the warmth that i cherish.

put the gun down. put the gun down. tell me to put the gun down.

close the curtains, i’ll be back in awhile.