Come away to the Island with me.
What is good?
What is memory?
and what, what
is fear?
My love, through the lens of prehistory,
unfit for our shuffles through the city.
The city.
This isn't the fucking city.
Against antique woodwork
and class
is a method to rewind us and remind us at the same time,
we're not 21. Money can't save you. We can't move on just yet.
My arms are trapped in my sleeves.
You can't will yourself to unlearn fear. So am I doomed?
Shame. Once so beautiful.
I don't think he'll hold me to my promise
But I will, only because,
tragically exciting:
the premise was that we would never see it that far.
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