I promise to write, and every night, or every other night, I talk to the souls hovering my bed and escape into a world where these words make sense. On some nights, though, they choose rather not to show. For the days are growing shorter, and the lack of sleep beneath my eyes is coming out with a story of yawns and blinks that bear not being opened.
The night I do sleep well, and the night I bring back the imaginery of alcohol and how well it tasted when mixed with your body, will be the one you will listen to the spirits of the night, and join me on a ride to this new world.
This new world that brings more tears than joy, and way more fear then any other toy.
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