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 ^{(it's beta!)}

“Complacency is the greatest sin,” she wrote, and they quoted her, smiling. Little did they know, she wrote about them in the most bitter of satire. She flicked her cigarette and smiled as no one caught her accusations of blandness and civility. She loved Kerouac and Ginsberg, menthol cigarettes, and having her heart broken and they loved her. Or so they said.

“Forever is a lie,” she told them, and they promised to never leave her. She asked them not to make promises, because no one knew what it meant to break one. She lit a fresh cigarette and sighed and wished someone would just understand. She was jaded, and tired and almost out of cigarettes and they admired her. Or so they thought.

“It’s unhealthy,” they warned her, and she laughed and didn’t believe. How could something kill you when it makes you feel so alive. Her throat burned and her head was light, but nothing compared to this beautiful feeling of completion. She never wanted to leave, and she wanted to run away, and she wanted to ride the highways at night on the roads to nowhere then back here.