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I shouldn’t be allowed to listen to this song anymore. I really, really shouldn’t.

Who’s blasting it in his office? This guy.

Who’s really hoping his best friend doesn’t come back until it’s over and then some time so she doesn’t see him all messy?


4 notes

Sometimes I write music, and sometimes I record it, and sometimes I mean things that you never have heard.


This town was paper, parchment and leaves.
Your house was a memory.
Written in the breeze.
I carried it with me.
Stored in my lungs.
Until I woke beside her.
and it wasn’t enough.

I burnt all the paper.
It made a great pyre.
I tossed in the pictures.
They crinkled, expired.
Yet I carried it all with me.
Till’ I showered off the ash.
Washed clean of your promises.
I hope that it lasts.

Then one day we found writing on the walls.
Beneath the posters I hung to cover it all.
They reminded me. The memories are real, even if they aren’t written, or inhaled on a whim.
They’re still in the air.
You left them there, when you burned them by the sea.
Sure this town was paper, but she wont burn so easily.

[shameless paper towns reference, all hail John Green]