the sunlight shining in dans cheeks,
illuminating each feature,
was almost insulting.
he wanted more than anything for the stars to reign the sky,
their poetic chaos telling stories of the brave and confident
to the scared and confused.
nevertheless, he does not carry the ability to make the sky turn.
no one does.
the cries of the stream
greeted dan.
the sound of the running water, housing the tears of the widow
and dinosaur piss
coming into contract with
rocks and tree branches
was the only thing that comforted dan during the daylight.
yet, his tears seem to always end up joining the widows.
dan sat down on a rusting iron bench and took out his journal.
god, it isn't even a journal anymore.
it is a collection of paper barely holding onto a leather spine.
dan howell is not a writer.
or, he doesn't consider himself as one.
he cannot dream of faces who have never seen this universe
complete with a harrowing plot.
he cannot write plays that change
ones way of thinking as
tears roll down their cheeks.
he can't even write a god damn haiku.
dan howell writes phrases.
YOU ARE READING
7:54 pm // phan au
Фанфик"galaxies in his eyes, yet he's not aware. in love with the boy with flowers in his hair" - spaceboy!dan & plantboy!phil
