Awesome, yet rough, night. My mind moves back to where I want to be, where I'll never be. Heart swells to a tune that I'll probably never fully share. It's all views from 45 here, dreaming about what happens in that house I've never truly left...
There's no going back, but fuck me if I don't feel like I'm some kind of traitor if I don't try. Synthesis is inadequate. So is everything else.
Sleep now. Read Edward Whittemore's books. ASAP.
