Ross. 24. A voluntary solitary in this railroad town. Mired in memories, sick of being sick, and haunted by the absence of the being I hold most dear. I read a lot, write almost as much, and work at a stage theatre. Here, I've laid these out: take a look.
I swiftly fly between hating my hair and thinking I should cut it off to liking it and wanting someone to play with it and cuddle with me.
But I’m definitely shaving tonight and no one can do a fucking thing about it.