Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?
I was wandering around as usual, in my unpleasantly populated sub-conscious.
Ham with mustard is a meal of glory
The Devil's out of fashion.
I am a restlessness inside a stillness inside a restlessness.
Only half a page left now. Shall I fill it with 'I love you, I love you'-- like father's page of cats on the mat? No. Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.