typeracer

I want to say I'm sorry for stuff I haven't done yet. Things will shortly get completely out of hand, I can feel it in the rotten air tonight. In the tips of my finger, in the skin on my face, in the weak last gasp of the evening's dying light. In the way those eyes I've always loved illuminate this place. Like a trashcan fire in a prison cell, like the searchlights in the parking lots of hell.