Born on a Thursday, I’ll die in a Monday.
The early sun sets into a pool of serotonin, soaks it all up and hoards it in a cave for 4 months.
I don’t want to spend a third of my life wearing sunglasses at night and staring dead-eyed at the back of my wrist,
waiting for the moment to realise I can’t fucking see and I look like a moron.
Unstoppable Force Vs. Immovable Object: My placebo ideologies and a tradition of ruined even numbers.
Over-inflated with mortal infinity, I’m too excited to enjoy myself.
Existential Libra with a prescription for indecision.
My fear of open water grows stronger, but I consider conquering it by counting to 42
from the center of a swimming pool.
Picture this: a mandarin tree that pulls out it’s own leaves once the fruit’s not in season and stagnates with empty branches
until the Summer sun reminds it’s skin to breathe again.