Come with us to Mexico, she says, and you no longer pretend to look for excuses. Tickets pile up under your pillow, they flutter and giggle and fall out of your pockets as you walk, what salvation they bring to your ailing soul. The rain refuses to let up, you drown but slowly, miss your alarms. I'm only going through the motions. Fake it till you make it.
Fake it till the tickets mend all the pieces that broke.
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Sifting through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way.
About Me
- Cajsa
- "If I can go to New York, live madly, and write. I will want for Nothing."
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