This withering of time and the descent of nightLife moves in circles. And exhaustion is no exhausted lie. To begin a winter tale is counter-intuitive. Close your mind and livebefore you bury what would die.
It takes an hour and a half to reach the little kid. The one who adulted into a comic sense of escape. Picking up little battles under the yellow and honey house; his father spent a life and his mothe
In some twenty minutes to another year
there comes a bicycle ringing,
panting,
between true intent and some real terror of losing a day's income; on it rides
one of those dark eyed guys we never care
Conversations live within him. Juiced upon tongues, picking his brain at the seventeenth hour of the day. Such twilights are slow. Slower than the time he takes to recall the boy's joy on bright Decem