You know, those frosty windows, icicle-like breath, keeping everything fresh in your memory for just long enough to actually enjoy it enough to want it again. You know, each and every foggy breath that comes out of your mouth is like the in and the out. And it seems only half as intense as it should really be. Or maybe it's twice as intense as it should be. Intensity, that's really the thing that should be the gauge that we truly operate on. If we could only truly understand it to begin with.
And you know, fluid, almost in gas, it always begins to turn around, and look you straight in the face, telling you what idiocy you are operating on right now. Sleeplessness, muttering to a pump, is why you have the right to feel this way. Or maybe it's because you shouldn't feel this way at all. It was just six inches and a sleeping roommate to worry about.
But then, it's the whole 16 dollars and a quarter of a tank syndrome that gets you going and swinging the other way. Suddenly, with that sub sandwich, a four door isn't such a bad idea. Open highway atm, check, it's gonna all come together. Seattle style. It all seems so good, until a comforter of sorts comes to mind.
But then, creeping, like the five hours were to be the five minutes, you change your mind. And alas, it's only like you would predict it. Simplicity.