Her room was clean, acute angles, and minimalism compressed into tiny spaces. We sat together quietly and watched unapologetic fanservice, the sound playing through a tiny headset-turned-speakers. My every performance with her is mediocre. Not disappointing, though I'm wishing for searing brilliance. We lay in her bed of boards, and listen to the wind whipping outside of her coffin-hovel. I plaited affectionate junk into her hair, and we whispered of asynchronous nothing to one another until exhaustion swallowed our dreams.
10:30 a.m. - 2017-01-23
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