Smoke gets in my eyes, Sleepy.
Tonight, we wander through the fog—the good kind, the dreamy kind. The kind where thoughts are like lazy ghosts around a campfire, dodging the marshmallows and heading straight for your face. I talk about mopeds, naturally. And being an idiot. Also naturally. Youth, spicy food, graves under church carpets, and the weight of choosing love—whatever that means.
There’s a subtle kind of crying happening, but don’t worry. It’s the sort that doesn’t need comfort. It just is. Like you. Like me. Like a rotating crucifix above the altar (don’t ask).
Let’s begin. It is what it is. What happens, happens. And right now, there’s nothing we can do about it.
Sleep Tight!
More about Henrik, click here: https://linktr.ee/Henrikstahl