She might hate me, and revile me, and heap indignity after indignity upon me, as she already had, until I should have hated her; but the pitiful fact remained that I loved her. Edgar Rice Burroughs(1875-1950)
Thoughts that go like bullets through you The time you told me that you wished you were dead • • • But so broken on when you can't stop choosing To sleep through your alarms Man, you're losing your head
Thoughts that go like bullets through you The time you told me that you wished you were dead • • • But so broken on when you can't stop choosing To sleep through your alarms Man, you're losing your head