G1311OP

My flat is number 13, G street. Eleventh floor. I booked this on purpose. Because it has a memory of you. No, not your face. It is deeper than this, it's something never been lived in this line. It's a centimetre out of it, but who tells us if it is really there or not. Because i do remember. Sometimes i forget how the words are formed or why my tongue sounds like that while crushing on my velum, sometimes i forget to check on my chest if it's really beating, i forget my doorbell ringing cause it never does, but not This. Not those socks that pull up with me and my messy hands, my mistreated calves and non affectionate knees. Not even those panties soiled with wet dreams and sad piss. Not the gloves, hiding for a reason those dead fingers swallowed by rabidness of teeth anxiety and night terrors. A raven raid took place there, in tiny scale so they can flake my skin. The ribbons symbolise the responsibilities. Are mine but not in my hands, i am innocent. Unaware. Duffy. Dull, stubborn,lostinthisrealityhtatoverhwelmsmeeverydaybutiamforebfetogonanfnbebha[ppy. Don't they say we can invent words, i invent my dialect so you can do the same thing you always do , not listen to me. I can invent it because now im somewhere else and even the duck under the semidome understands what this means. This world is too big for a small brain like you. Oh but why Why whY you ripped me off this was my favourite piece of paper, it had on it the colectiveness of the notes and it ends in one minute 34 seconds, all my favourite songs are not lasting too long not getting me used in falling for them.