Heavy sky and its smudgy clouds, putting rain all up on this place. Cars are swushing on the roads, the chill windows are streaked with little rivers. Reading novels under a faux-fur throw.
Would be more quaint if the blood in my fingers was thick and warm and my left foot wasn't a dead block in its shoe. Mummy, mummy, I want to come home where the powerbill isn't addressed to me.
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