Via Flickr:
It’s funny how, as we grow old
We cling to the past as we cling to the air
And feel nostalgia for things that were maybe never there
The town where innocence was bullied and flared
The house where desire’s first fluids bled
But now the autumn leaves are turning to the color of rust
I’m getting jealous for youth’s first yearnings for lust
recoding for live performances
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Just another part of me
My foot prints around the grid
ШHΛT'S THIS ΛЯT 