Filming my life. Writing the rest..
Or maybe it’s the other way.
Puddles detach from danish
Dreams. Lost for straw’s sale.
Mike halted with scribbling moment winds. He thought of going back to the floor, to that counter, with his characters. His mocha, done. Now, a whole day at bow. He tilted his cup, but not even a slight sliver of it’s sweet syrup surfaced. Doom.