Cigarette ashes on the stove, constellations of black against the little-used white metal. Sky so blue it's almost white, tree blossoms breaking apart in the breeze. My thoughts as scattered as the petals of the shattered flowers, accumulating in corners, turning brown. Thoughts whirling, spinning, circling, almost tangibly, like a whirlpool of thick liquid going down a drain. What is it all for? To wake up every day and know exactly how your day is going to go. Who you will talk to, what you will say, how many fake laughs you will force through your throat to crack the rusty hinges of your lips. So, you feel like a dandelion in the manicured lawn of life... What makes you so fucking special?
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