shoes on power-lines were the definition of a nearby drug deal, the explanation of a neighbourhood narcotic, but i was that forties gangster with insecurity in my noir military backpack. the drug was the powered reason of why i hated my existence so much.
everybody wears shoes. ballerinas on pointe, sweaty jocks with the few hundred nike, the boys i once fell in love with wore those fake "I love you's" but nobody questioned them without proof that they were actually bought from a dealer on ebay or amazon, or whatever retailer sold fake shoes. i once heard that those retailers were called "mom" or "mama", but i don't shame them. they are good retailers, they are very good. in fact, they just want the best for their customers, they love their customers but their customers go behind their back. they always cooked up a breakfast with love but their customers took that love and shared it amongst all the averagely attractive five-foot girls in school. none of those girls knew if that love was real or fake, and that's what makes the retailers such good people.
I never met a retailer, but I wish I did. Id ask them how they care for their customers, I'd ask how they provided, I'd ask how they worked but most importantly, I'd ask how they love, if it's tenderly or just for money. even though I have never met a retailer, I've made a close bond with customers, too many for my fifteen year old head to comprehend. and they were all the same, with different retailers of course. and those retailers wore different shoes.
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shoes on powerlines
أدب المراهقينthis is the literature of my high school career. the most sorrowful & meaningless nature of my earth. the novel about nine in the morning english class, the story of the starving lunchtime and the greatest anxiety of gym class. this is the entrance...
