Sunday, 8 November 2015

Very Long Now

There's a ghost in my attic. He knows I'm not afraid of death, so instead of haunting me he's taken to taunting me and calling me a spastic. Some are born with silver spoons in their mouths, but all the spoons I've supped from have been plastic. Don't get me wrong, being in love can sometimes be utterly fantastic but why does it always seem to snap as easily as elastic?

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