it leaves the very tips of my fingers tender to the touch or the slightest temperature in the water from the faucet as I wash my face...the day's work running out of my palms and turning my sink grey.
such open roads and open doors with wild winter wind whipping past my piled-up curls and every light touch of the driver's brake bringing anticipation, a ready leap into the street
surrounded by rough i can finally understand a little and speak back. but i still can't speak money, the driving-force behind the motivation of almost every coworker I know. The only one...sad sad
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