Once

I had a stick, I had a queen.

Every city has it's own tallest branch. God damnit, my insides are so fucked up, i cant even move position. Just have to endure that creeping, piercing smell of fermenting ash at the bottom of cider cans and the way my sunrise finds its way back to me so easily when the curtains don't even hold up. And here I am, wide-eyed in this patchwork bed with joint butts and lost pieces of clothing. There's probably someone sleeping still under my desk, comforted by the dirty wash pile. Or maybe they got out. Maybe I shouted at them too. God damn bian.

Someone remind me what happens when this happens. Someone give me a foot up, and i'll get to the top of that tree, i'll show you.