You know all things are good and sorted when you wake up in Siddh's couch, covered in a feather boa, clutching a heart shaped cushion and a psychedelic witch light we stole from a party we gatecrashed last night. Slinking out, leaving an incriminating trail of feathers, into the early morning winter smog, cackling. Smoking a goodmorning cigarette in the auto, piecing together events of the night before. The auto wind shoving effortlessly past your brothers ripped jeans (circa 1998), dads army green corduroy shirt, your knackered vans, into your bones where it will stay there for the next few months. You realize that all your 'emptiness' has no force over this. And all you can do with it is laugh about it with your bro on a pavement and say 'maaaan'.
Winteriscoming bro.
Winteriscoming bro.
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