Shootin’ for a spark.
Parisa’s profound ramblings, as I recall them.
He sounded terrible, but sure is one hell of a thing to have inscribed on your tombstone.
Sometimes, we drink.
*Enough.
A large piece of wood that rests against a wall in my living room. I’ll probally never finish it, and never hang it.
I’m a fan of nostalgia.
THIS. MEANS. WAR.