She doesn’t want to go where tired lines repeat themselves, I love you’s don’t mean shit right now. I’m going to smash this bitches face in, find the cunt and stab the f*cker. Back on level ground, will we ever find ourselves again? f*ck you, London. Someone’s going to die tonight. – But you know that it’s not right to punish her when you couldn’t ever say that you never did play your part, you never did shit that you shouldn’t, that you never did things that you said that you wouldn’t, you never said shit that you wish that you hadn’t now. This could have been avoided; it could have been kept at bay. But tables turn and lessons some can only be learned through punishments for past mistakes. Past thoughts of giving up once bottled till they erupt, once buried and covered, hidden and smothered are gone just like the past few years in a city that magnified our fears and made it far to easy to blame London than it was to fault myself. I still tend to oversimplify certain situations like the time she told me that she f*cked him and I thought – I can’t believe this, did she not know that I loved her? A weak man beaten sat at bus stops freezing. I’m out. Shutting down. On the way home, 26 to Cassland Road, but she doesn’t want to get off there, no she doesn’t to stop there. Well I still act blind, I still have violent thoughts at times.