eleven.

433 26 3

by disastres

by disastres

                                    
                                              WINTERTIDE.



                          i can hardly leave my house anymore. all these sweaty dudes with microphones in my face, asking if i just secretly attended your private funeral or something. people actually think you're dead- it's this huge conspiracy, you'd probably find it funny. hopefully you're not actually dead, though. i know that's nonchalant, but that's because i doubt it- and then i start to doubt my doubt, and it's this huge cycle that i'll annoy you with another time. anyway... i hope you're doing okay, lexie. 



                          2017.05.17