The Art Of Infatuation.
The dusk wastes its pity on me. In its muted retiring lights, i have learned a terrible habit of forcing poems out of my mouth, when maybe all i wanna do is be as quiet as the wounds nesting inside my head. Связанные каналы
Ushbu sahifaga kirish uchun avtorizatsiyadan o‘tgan bo‘lishingiz kerak
Tizimga kirish