Those Mountains Looked Like Hills, Those Fields I Knew Well

It's a song that seems to be more than it was when he wrote it down. I dont think he knew that. And it keeps going on, in a good way. Not a bad way, where you wait for the end. You don't know how much time has passed, but it seems like less, and feels way more.

I'm going to read some children books over the summer. For the marrow. Maybe some Edward Gorey, maybe some Winnie the Pooh. Perhaps i hate you.


But I dont think I really hate you.

Just the guy who took my favourite guitar.
A hollow telecaster, to fill the emptiness inside me.

Ironic?
No
Intentional Coincedential?
Only When I Wrote it down.

But i still loved it.




cummedyegha.
x(