Sunday, March 6, 2011

Everything is a cross-processed shade of yellow and blue, specs of grain hiding in the shadows. We dwell in a small town we love to hate, soft light forever dancing on our flawless faces. Adventures with beautiful friends and boys who give us butterflies, blessed with the ability to find excitement behind every corner. Sipping Cola at retro diners. Finding stray cats. Trying on oversized sweaters in thrift stores. Spiked Arizona green tea and bongs all colors of the rainbow; both functional and meeting the standards of our aesthetics.
We eye the pink horizon as the daylight slips from our grasp again. But this is not the end. Far from it, actually. The night is when we truly come alive. The soft, round edges of loud bass in our ears, strobe lights in our eyes. As our vision blurs, so does our perception-- but that's okay. We're safe among the mess of hot flesh and spilled drinks.


[not quite sure what this is supposed to's a tad shallow, butahwell]

4 amusing musings:

Hannah Marie said...

love this! You're writing is amazing :)

Shenge said...

YOU wrote that? Holy sh*t. That's amazing stuff.

Candy said...

RE: Thanks! :D and sure, go ahead! ^.^

Grace said...

I like this! It's very true, when you think about it.

Post a Comment


Blog Archive

Copyright © making mountains
Blogger Theme by BloggerThemes Design by