eleven july
eleven : forty-three p.m.

he is still here. he wrote a story drew distorted faces on blank paper :

"two lovers a page and a world apart. and only behind closed books do they embrace. finding each other in the binding. killing each other. only breathing in the others carbon dioxide. smearing pencil marks. who will die first?

you stay up too late for my tastes, anyway."

it's over. don't touch me anymore.




listen : joan of arc