Uniform on the chair. Alarm set. The weekend already feels fictional. London does not let you keep Friday night. It wants you back in pieces.
Year: 2023
Lip, coat, nails, bus. Nobody has to know the account. This city reads surfaces first. I give it a surface that looks like proper winning.
A wrist in his story is not commitment. It is cover. If I am good enough for his bed I am good enough for face.