The neighborhood of Catlanta will be eternally grateful to Maria Iqbal, who passed away while attempting to tame a ferocious feline beast ravaging the neighborhood upholstery. Her last words will stay with us forevermore, “ITS SO FLUFFY, I’M GONNA DIEE”. We knew her to be always true to her word.  

When you find yourself driving head first into the storm, there’s

going to be a less severe version of yourself in the passenger seat

screaming DO YOU EVER STOP MAKING BAD DECISIONS

and the thunder is going to roar back NOT WHEN THEY LOOK

THIS GOOD. And the thunder is just a metaphor for a boy whose

heart doesn’t beat even half as loud, and the storm is just a mess

of circumstance. You see the shape of California in the side mirrors,

taunting you with how objects are closer than they appear. Like,

yeah, keep personifying distance but don’t forget to mention that

she’s got a matching pair of daggers ready. You keep talking like

you’re outside your body, like that makes up for your lack of empathy.

Keep asking yourself why you have to break everything made up of

glass – the windows / the mirrors / the coffee table. Say, I think

this is what cracking my bones would sound like. Say, I don’t think

my heart can keep taking it. Say, if I destroy it I never have to

worry about loving it.