johnnyfive

she's fucking the tatto artist and it's fucking with my head. she thought she'd never do it, just like her. thought it could be different, maybe? innocent and free of conflicting morals. but just like everything else, it blew up in her face. or on it, spit or swallow, whatever, right? it's all for the perfect moment. that's all there is, right, no perfection can last longer than a moment, a scene in life, a few seconds out of millions that run on like a train out of control, careening off it's tracks that were laid so precariously in a direction that lead to absolutely nowhere.
and back in my head the music is still playing the theme to my ruined life. sometimes i think it's over and i'm just sitting there waiting for the hidden track. but it just starts playing again...