Dear Mathil, I am writing to give you a picture of where my head lives. over the bar hangs a solid gold moon which winks like an eyeball as I turn in my cycles.
You are that toddler in Tesco dragging its feet out the front of the pram,tripping up blind old women,that piece of popcorn that looked like someone I can’t quite figure out who irritating.
Sorry property Or someone’s always dead Even though they ended and the years bred like guinea pigs the house of what he/she did still sometimes creaks with mortgage.