i'm laying down, eating snow, my fur is hot, my tongue is cold. open atmosphere.
i leave home
at seven
under a heavy sky
i ride my bike up
i ride my bike down
march spoke, but my toes still numb.
When i grow up, i want to be a forester and run thru the moss on high heels...that's what i'll do
throwing out a boomerang, waiting for it to come back to me
when i grow up, i want to live near the sea, crab claws and bottles of rum, that's what i'll have, staring at the seashell, waiting for it to embrace me.
but now is the only time i know,
some do magic and some do harm i'm holding on holding on i'm holding on to a straw. is it dark already? how light is a light? do you laugh while screaming? is it cold outside? one thing i know for certain i'm pretty sure it ain't over i'm not done
this is references, this is how i get things done in my head
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