i'm not your friend. i don't give a shit about you. you're just a nobody, nothing, punk-ass kid.
ind. bullet of amc's the killing.
private as hell. low activity.

SEPIOL.

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            it’s not like i have your home address.  he counts to three - just to leave a gap between pulling her leg and:   are you okay?  realistically? i know she’s not. neither of us are. but i’m not the kid here and okay has only ever meant “as okay as we can be, circumstances considered”. not much worse. not far better.

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❛     bullshit.    you’re  lookin’  at it.     ❜     a sweeping gesture.    as if the postman delivers to the east duwamish greenbelt or the other encampments.    she pauses.    like she can’t process what he’s asking,  or  why.    (     she isn’t okay and she  hasn’t been  okay in months,  but knows how to keep the façade going.   )    eventually gives a shrug of her shoulders in a noncommittal response.     ❛     been alright.    shouldn’t i be askin’  you  that ?    ‘cause y’ look half  dead,  yo.    you eat today ?    i got some cash.     ❜