A thousand and one miles deep into obscurity, but happy about it. Fa-fa-fump, and all the songs on the radio are Snow Patrol's lately. That one album that encompasses every last VH-1 almost-be's. Um, not sounding right. The edges of the mirror and her cracks,...
and one birthday late. Just gonna sit here for a bit while I gather my thoughts, pawning half-answers off on my three-year-old, and her questions. Whose is that? Mine? Can I have it, in other words. Simpler to ignore half her sentences.
Until she gets to the root of what she's asking, really though, she's just messing up parts of the basement until I answer. So that's how romance novelists' thoughts are processed. Irregularly.
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