PunkRoctorok

Katniss: So here you are then the mother of dragons, I guess it's time to jump on that fanboy, manboy bandwagon. Top-billed in Game of Thrones for showing us your boobs I'm at the top of the Hunger Games for pwning District 1 noobs. Peeta and Gale compete for my love While Khal Drogo tried you on like a new glove You'll handle this battle like ruling Meereen, Interest in your last 3 seasons has yet to be seen While I'm driving Panem to a brighter, better day, You can't seem to get yourself out of Slaver's Bay Daenerys: So here's Katniss acting all turnt, while trying to spit fire at the girl Unburnt Who does Kristen Stewart with

We don't, really. Those of us who are real. Not me, I'm not one of those. I constantly seek validation but only unearth malediction. I inevitably reach for creation while only reaping destruction. Reach for the earth, mix in the seeds in the mushy ground. It comes, stamped and dated "Infinity" and as such renews itself over and over again, perpetually stuck in the male and refilled, reprinted, reshipped from God's (he's not real) office. They once put me, not long ago, in a place with walls. A pen you don't play in but that you cry in. I did cry. I knew then that getting sick didn't echo the same as his place by the fire. With loins that

There is a longing that can only be felt in old rooms. The geometry of the doorways can try and suppress it, box it into separate cells, but it will meander as flows of unseen breath. Shift around the hem of the sofas, wash over pale lamp shades and wood molding. Linger for unknowable time beneath a bedframe. Consisting of innumerable wisps, faint chills of missing, mute voices, of low exhales, and of feet on cold floors. From their source and destination, which are indistinguishable. The walls here are off-white and have lost the days of warm bread on the spindly table. Where the basin once swam with broken sun, its faucet arches in depleti