seventeen november
twelve : ten p.m.

we listened and left.

and drove and wound up at his house. and drove and wound up at borders.

i grabbed a book, and curled up on the floor.

and they played the most beautiful song.

"i have no idea to this day what those two italian ladies were singing about. truth is, i don't want to know. some things are better left unsaid. i'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful it can't expressed in words, and it makes your heart ache because of it."