my weekend sounded like this:
whatever happened to the great escape, and all the plans we made...
sometimes i see people that remind me of broken pieces, and i started to love broken pieces, but just the ones that cant be mend...
i love their long search for something they'll never find
i love their mistery and their irony
i love their laughter
i imagine how their pillow looks like after they wake up and go to wash the dreams off their faces... all the wrinkles from the pillows... i want to invent a mechanism that would make them liquid, and then inject them in my veins, feed myself with the shadow of what once used to hold their beautiful faces...
so here's another story about a serendipity, but this one never happened for real,still, it could happen anytime, anywhere, as long as i carry the longing in my heart...
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