‘ I HATE THE COLD. ‘ vanity provides hair to be brushed back, via gloved fingers. the blood in her veins, the breath on her lips, the slow, treacherous slap of her heart against her chest. it’s all cold. her expression is stagnant. bitter, akin to the coffee grown cold in her hands. yet, eyes that found solace in warm brown tones now drifted to the laddered road ahead. fifteen seconds to cross. ‘ so. what happened to your car ? ‘ / @wildsuit










