His dark skin and loose-curled hair inside the borders of washed films. His eyes weren't always ringed with golden melts of his own pupil. His teeth weren't always yellowed. Wrap your head around the fact that there happened a time when everything was beautiful, he said.
His golden days were rebellious indulged psyche of teen's wild dreams. Mine are much more collected that his. The last time I get around, I touched cigarettes but not with my lips. I tasted liquor but not on sane mind. I don't jump out fences, I don't cry until 11.
Sometimes I wonder if sepia could be extracted as a simple understanding of insipid memoirs or a page of journal filled. You know, like recorded things, we romanticizes what is right now so when we look back, each spectrum of colours would be a little bit vibrant that how it really was when it actually happened?
