Send me a •3• and I will put my playlist on shuffle, write down the first line of five songs and give it to your muse as a poem from mine
→to; anonymous recipient
from; terra
—
you think we’re fucking blind (you think we’re so blind)
well, you know that i’m cold
and now i know; i know the truth
all these days have turned these months into a year
with headphones on, the streets are silenced.
—