2001-04-23 :: 1:54 p.m.
I want him to call me.
All the sand in the desert, babe. Every beam of sun. Stars plotted against window. And how are you working this out for us? My side of this story reads like love rectangles. I want everything to be ready right now. My patience pills run out, my bed plays hostess to a canine. You, on the other hand, wake up and she's there. Cold comfort, no? Not exactly spilling over in the passion department, but I guess we're doing what's been predetermined. I don't much like being a puppet, though. Wanting what I want, almost isn't soon enough. What it's coming down to is the ancient fence and who's sitting on it.