And who knew it was all to go so wrong?
In those tender nights. As spring drew it's veil and we drove our flags high through the avenues of our youth... Be best our Sunday clothes, and fragmental our follies in the high grass. I hope for youth to retain it's meaning in you, and our memories to rotate around your blessed body as a satellite to remind you of our once being in your next skin. Let me be a line in your face at least. For in those days of old, stories untold as moments unfolded, and skin was bold and bright like the flight of a seedling. Who knew it would all go so wrong?