these thoughts cant be good so pour yourself another glass of organic milk and tell me you miss me, put down the phone when you hear a noise at the door, cling desperately to the background noise, a comedy when its the girl youve been putting gel in your hair for. they havent named your disease, its a silent one, embedded in the flesh of the victims with your very movement and constricting airways until life is bland without you. youre a massive cookbook, encompassing the poor recipies that your mother made for a change and the classics that life wouldnt be the same without.