When she's gone, I shake my head at myself and head off to my room. I slam my fist into the wall on the way up, locking my door and grabbing my secret stash. Taking the whole bag, I climb up to the roof and light the first cigarette I pick out.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
I went to confront noisy neighbours, only to find the windows dark, stuck with two notes. The ghost, too, had "gone fishing". Something still whistled. — Liminality