So, it’s your birthday again, isn’t it? You’re now a 77 years spirit in the sky, aren’t you? I’m writing this little stupid letter sorrounded by flying handkerchiefs. I’ve got a cold. Every year I get a cold on your birthday, can you explain me why???? Anyway, John, thank you. I can’t imagine my life without all those things and people that make me feel alive; you’re one of them, Johnny, you’re one of the most important. When out the blue you came to me, my life became better. Thank you for all the wonderful things you did, you inspire me everyday to keep going on. Thank you for your words and your mind, thank you for your ideas, which are similiar to mine. Thank you for your songs, your voice, inciting and inviting me. Thank you for your love, your strength, your passion. Thank you for being John. My love for you is a limitless undying love, you know, that’s why I’m writing this, that’s why I’m here. Half of what I said is probably meaningless, but I said it just to reach you, John. (I’m sorry, I love using quotes from your songs)
Too schmaltzy? I’m sorry, my friend, that’s what I feel when I talk about you; I feel so warm, so happy, I bet my eyes are sparlkling as I was watching a good movie. Yeah, I consider you my friend. (my bf - but i wish bf also meant boyfriend bc i want to kiss your damned face, i wanna touch your hair and know why people discuss about it if it’s ginger or not, i wanna give you roses, i wanna give you old records for your birthday and see your smile because you’d be the only person who listens to good music i know, i want to give you lemonade and say while you’re drinking it “oh no you’re a cannibal you’re drinking Lennonade!” but i can’t because you’re not here i can’t i can’t i can’t)
I’ve been too sweety again? Who cares.
Oh, I was inspired by Paul and I’ve bought a hamburger for you as a present, I hope you like it.
happy birthday to the dreamer, my inspiring marshmallow friend
Words can describe the terrible acts, the tremendous events, and the troublesome outcomes that fill the empty void of secret pits. That’s all it was. The pit of painfully, beautiful secrets that screamed the truth of one being.
when i find people attractive, about 99% of the time it’s not “i’d tap that” or even “i’d make out with that”
it’s more like “i would sit here staring at your face forever and then curl into a ball and die once you noticed also would it be weird if i touched your face i just kinda wanna memorize it with my fingertips”