on days like these.
On days like these, the flow of air is heavy enough to stop me from thinking, and senses would take over. Even the slightest gesture of tiny utterances would catch me in the deepest hole of wayward nocturne. I wish there are more days like these, more and more and more would take over until I die. Then, in my cavernous nocturnal home, the tips of my fingers will never have to bite again.