All I have left is writing.
So what can I do but write?
Shaving faces come at costs of doing it again, like life say Buddhists. Maybe she is right when she says I need only the new. Maybe this is blue, or white or red, like us Westerners are so highly known as pests. Sleep seems wise and ditching things comes as a nice surprise now. How can I hold onto anything that charts a fall. Even here it is no good for watching rhymes. I know the time remains aloof at stage.