2008-04-22 || 12:56 a.m.
Tightroped.
Tyring to feed my head. Trying to get some sort of relief; a break from things.
A head full of red. That's what I get....
It's a razor sharp line I'm walking.
Tightroped.
She's right beside me.
Lengthwise.
Writing writing.
We're spewing creativities.
Leaking.
They're twirling and winding.
Entangling themselves high above our heads.
Dancing out a display only we can see.
It feels good to be here. It feels safe. It feels good. We're both wandering the same scattered path. We're sharing thoughts, sights, smells.
It's torture to know that we're both here and we're both experiencing and feeling the same things, but it's an impossibility to open up that door.
It's neither the time, nor the place.
And it never will be.