Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My hands are dirty. Tomorrow, I say, is Someday. After the ink has faded, and dried, and been washed five thousand times, I'll still be here, I imagine. I like the feeling right after my anger, when it's just passed into a haze, and I can't taste it any more. . I fall in love too quickly. . Tonight I am happy my sheets are cold. PS - Please read this. 9:14 p.m. - 2003-06-26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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