Georgian accent and a susceptible aging face weighs kindly when pitted against cold-hardy steel that you’ve taken to.

Kind as a kind of moment as opposed to the action of being sweet and gentle. Trapped legs that strolled sweetly to the symphony of my smile but now they’re mud trodden and all I can do is press play on the VCR.

Ensnarled and interlocked, we’re only your prize. Whereas once before you rotted us away; there was an exchange pure enough to swear by. Leapt across a singular bed and up thirteen dirty stairs. Sometimes twelve is just a better number than eight.

There’s nothing more religious than calling your names out to the sky; Clint, Dexter, Jules! Like you need to be rescued from the court. And that’s it; I was never the youngest.