And if we're enough
We will gather up the sun...
Trepidation permeates my
every thought...
I will erect statues;
in every park...
You loved me so much
Also I am your son...
Parallels,
creator and createe...
The hours—
they are pilgrims of solitude...
A writer not only writes what the writer feels but the writer can also feel what the writer writes |
Being in love is like playing with fire you always get burned |
Must keep my eyes open, can't fall asleep yet, I'm widely wake, but for how long? |