"She's not mine," Matt tells me in a whisper as we sit in the bombshelter, the collapsed back patio of the house Wynona lives in. She does not own the two story house, but found it, on the outskirts of Tempe, and then packed up all of her things and made it her own. There are leaks, and the paint peels away if you rub against it, but Wynona acts like she can't feel the house shift and settle in the nigh wind as we sleep on her living room floor. Shes was always as cheerful as the day we met her after the show, when she toured us her home; six rooms each given a teme by her: colors, green room, white room, some of them activities: Art room , where she hung her dream catchers with rabbit's paws instead of hawk feathers, play room, and two bedroom. Matt and I layed the guitars and drums on the floor and that was it, we were part of the family, up until the night I burnt it down.
Just some stuff I wrote in class. Nothing special for day 100. I should really draw again.
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