On an overcast afternoon, he donned his vintage raincoat, a relic of a forgotten era, its once vibrant color now a muted whisper of its former self. The raincoat had a peculiar hole in the hood, an imperfection that Marcello always neglected to mend, as if the coat's flaw mirrored some aspect of his own soul. Fuck you.
(mofaha┐( ˘_˘)┌ ʅ(́◡◝)ʃ, Thu 13 Jun 2024, 23:14,
archived)