let lemons be angry

Like a duck that learnt to fly away before all the others, or like a flower that turned into fruit too soon. I don't know. A bit sad. And now nothing is turning sour, but come sweeten every afternoon?

Fitzgerald's flappers love the rhythm of crowded nights, the hustle-bustle of glamorous emptiness, and maybe i know why.

And all I want to be is too much sometimes for me. I've taken on the responsibility of loving 15 more people, because doing so gives me fulfilment. But nobody knows it. And there's only so long that one can wander with purpose on streets made for couples and groups who blissfully have no purpose. But nobody knows it. And nobody knows, but i never actually read a book called Confessions of the Mad and Lonely. There. So the conclusion is, i've had enough of this holiday. Please give me work.