>OK. So I’ve just entered the room. My smell is a mix of some strange woman’s perfume and my own cologne. A boyish face that’s won many hearts, says I’m up to no good. I slink over to my sofa and open my laptop to write. I slump, then, I slouch. My posture is poor like a stoner’s, my shoulders damn near touching my ears. My shirt’s hanging on my lanky body and my pants sagging. My eyes glaze when i laugh, but no, I’m not high. Outfitted in the hopes of pushers but hardly am I that type of hustler. I do want that same type of reckless freedom, though. So what am I after and what are the means to my end? More or less, I sell real estate on dreamscapes. Listening to a song and tapping my toes. I think I have an idea...
" h m m . . . l e t ' s s e e . . . "
Listen to "PAPER GIRLS"
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