Of wolves and rabbits; as I fall from the burning sky of twilight.
2010-12-11, 4:00 a.m.
As time goes on, I've come to the conclusion that I hate the sound of my own voice. In every way.
The sound.
The sentence structure.
The syntax.
Everything.
I can't help but think it comes from the lonely echoes of talking to myself. The fucking echoes. And nevertheless, right now, I'm alone.
�Repitition of Hatred�Loveless Avenue�Burn Out (and) Fade Away �Plofile�Notes�Host�Archive�