2003-11-05 @ 11:18 p.m.
Speaking stupidities, staring starry-eyed at the stars above, chain-smoking ourselves to death; your typical Friday night? Maybe it's Saturday? Sunday, even? Sorry, can't remember. We're too light-headed to think.
Catch your breath, Purple-faced Boy, and sing me a lullaby.
Inhibitions are eliminated and I'd run ass-naked down the grassy hillside we lay on if only you'd ask. We don't need reasons in this state of mind -we only need action.
"All you guys are doing is killing yourselves faster; cigarettes are proved to be extremely dangerous. Did you know that..." we're forced to drown out of our heads, 'cause the attacks don't seem to end. Please, we don't need you to quote your precious Truth ads -I don't need to know how many people die a year of lung cancer- we know of the risks by taking them, but you just don't listen.
"You're killing yourself!"
Late nights sitting by the river bank, playing with the grass lying beneath my hands. Tangled hair splayed on the ground beneath me, laying face upturned to face the stars -it's almost as if we're looking for confrontation. I want to be one, I say, before I go into my off-key redition of any random song that makes itself known in my head. I'm just trying to keep sane.
I'm just trying to keep sane.
Nicotine and lighters keep us sane.
Listening to: "People Are Strange" by The Doors
everything © Claudia (2003-2008)