In this pub, with its walls pregnant with history, I’m far past drunk and looking into my glass and my head is propped on my left hand. Brooklyn smiles while she talks, excited by her memories, and gestures wildly with her hands hoping that I can relate, hoping that I’ll retaliate with a story of my own. I’ve forgotten her real name and I stopped caring about an hour ago. It’s like we’re all writing our own story, she says, and I nod my head. I like not knowing where I’m going, she says, but I love where I’ve been.
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Title by: Aqiyla
Story by: Jeremy
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