Blueprints in my head,
Blueprints on my page
I know this bitter, salty taste, these dry, cracked lips. It’s the taste of self inducing five weeks of misery, solitude, and sleepless nights. It’s the taste of leaving behind everything I want for the sake of a future of stability and everything that the present is not. Maybe it’s just my own bitterness.
The immorality of this country has astounded me yet again with the debate of the legalization of prostitution.
I hereby solemnly swear that I will leave this country when I am able to.
Snow falling on the twentieth winter, heralds the beginning of silence.
The air, cold with bitter dissent, endows comfort in your arms and panacea in your warmth.