Your god too small, he lacks mithril plate mail armor.

But I won’t play the same class as the one you rolled me as, and I don’t wanna dance for you. Like a god who told them breed, reading facts you wanna see, and your peter pan syndrome’s the only spell card that you need.

I can’t fall back to sleep, planning things like D&D, hurting people that I love over things that they believe. I don’t remember the things you’re into but tell me everything you’re into now and we can do that too. I miss you dude, promise me you’ll show me L.A. Completely irrational but that would never stop me from disappearing three days at a time. Sometimes I get paranoid on the floor my friends and family don’t like me anymore. Cause all I learned is that the only thing that changes during quarantine is the chemical makeup of my body as it relates to a ratio of water to yellow tail chardonnay. I want plot armor of the thinnest steel and an offscreen romance with the movie deal. I wanna fight someone til my lipstick’s blood. I want a body to absorb the snacks when stoned. And I was talking to you thirteen or fourteen cities ago– You said you love a place where you don’t feel at home so I don’t date anymore. You shed your surroundings like a Russian doll. But I simply admire the way that you get up and paint over the walls. You said you’re moving to the west coast and I know it sounds cliché.

The Knife Flac