My tongue has been cut out, and my fingertips broken…thus I’m out of inspiration to waste words anymore.  I wish I’d held onto a part of it so I’d maintain motivation, but I’ve let that fall through my cracked hands as well.  Now I’m left with faded thoughts of dreams that never happened, and events that never took place.  I doubt we ever met.

I’ll be your karate kid and you can be my Cruel Summer.

I’m running on fumes, mentally.