The way the world works is in five ways.
But I don't know any of them.
I'm a stranger to order. A look into my backpack is a look into my brain.
Crumpled papers of assignments long lost line the bottom and the books are used as notebooks, the papers sticking out the sides have frilled edges.
There is rarely a working pen in the front pockets.
Maybe a highliter and some post-it notes, but not a pen.
(i haven't used a pencil in years. I don't like the way they scrape against the paper.)
I want to feel:
And sweet, sweet love.
And I want to swing for the fences.