11 May 2012
The words trickle from our vocal cords before we think. Our lungs ache because of all the smoke miserableness we've caused them. The unorganized lives we live will never be as straightened out as we want them to be. Driving at night with the windows rolled down will never grow old. Our blackened feet from being bare will always hold a tint of gray. We will get by with every inch patience we have in our bodies.
The Way We Get By • Opuss № I