The boy sits clothed on an old wooden chair, typewriter before him, window casting light both on the table, and on the bed beside him. a bed on the floor, half made, with the fine form of a woman, clothed in nothing but boy-cut underwear and a camisole. He’s writing words, he’s not sure he’ll ever give to her. A thank you letter, a love letter It’s a photo in black and...
Fucking OSAP stress.
Angry right now I know what I’m angry about. I don’t know why I’m angry. Really, it’s nore of a frustration Wanna talk about it, but I haven’t got the words. Let’s just be quietly angry together Let it melt. Find some reason Break the silence Be Optimistic.