They are talking to their dog, just sweet little things like good boy, who’s a good boy?
Footsteps in the morning dark, gentle patter. Muffled voices outside my window.
They could be expressing guilt for crying harder from heartbreak than for genocide.
They could be telling someone about a dream where they were paralyzed in a hospital.
Footsteps in the morning dark, gentle patter. Muffled voices outside my window.
Maybe they struggle to sleep at night and never know the right time to start drinking coffee.
