Artists are not born to be understood. They are born to make other people understand.
All my bitter kisses, I said goodbye a long time ago. Or maybe I never said hello. Our footprints still lie in the snow.
His cigarette slipped off his hand and fell on the wet ground beneath him. His legs motionless, his crystal green eyes collecting all the shadows that the rainy day casted upon his memories, those crystal green eyes were staring into someone’s infinity. He thought about how hard it was for him to dive into his… Continue reading Rove
Smoke your cigarette.Make your love a love.
You are that drop in the ocean of my thoughts that chases the waves all the way to the shore of my reality and makes them wash away all the unhappiness.