The broken shreds of narrow roads...and other tales of boredom.

I am the red silhouette. Under the tree of design that constitutes the very mold from which we sprang. I am the adolescent screams of rage that penetrate the cement walls of basements everywhere. I am the daughters of discontent sewing their sleeves long enough to conceal a knife and wishing with their whole hearts that anchors would fall. Never have I been so terribly blank as to say "hello, some weather we're having." and yet never have I been so filled up to actually remember a thing or two. So why am I writing this and what does it mean. I don't fucking know...