Flipping on fake candles outside these days.
It’s cheaper that way.
I don’t remember being Classy.
You oughta hear the things I tell myself to tell myself.
All these unreads that live on that shelf.
Where do I belong?
And what the fuck is going on?
I’m not really that worried.
Jesus, lemons, pigs and fake candles.
Please us, blood moon, cats and lovehandles.
Get us back there.
Some springs, it was winter.
The crackling, the whiskey, the laughs that we cried.
The salsa we bought that we never tried.
There’s still so much that we’ve never tried.
Flickering? They’re still.
And still’s all I’ve ever really needed.