I don't need to be forgiven

[levity]

Walked home alone from TRP chorale practice this evening, singing teenage wasteland, only teenage wasteland at the top of my lungs. My idea of heaven is red boots and streetlights and headphones and Pedro Gil washed down with rain, loose limbs and half-baked ideas rising like tendrils of smoke and night falling with its requisite mid-November sense of urgency. I don't think I've been happier since the Chelsea game. Still cannot write and I have an exam coming up, as they always will, and my throat hurts like all hell. Do I care? Too damn happy to.