AC-CENT-TCHU-ATE | STORAGE

[aureate]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]— He doesn't know how to describe his feelings on the subject. It's a house fire and shattered glass, like he'll end up hurting everyone that touches him. Nothing he says is something that mattered, he can't talk about anything important. "You don't want that. Believe me."

— Anxiety stays bottled up behind his ribs, pressure building until it bubbles and bursts, bleeding out of the spaces in between. He wants to say something, he wants to throw up. "Wait." He sounds hoarse even to his own ears. "Maybe — I could?" Stupid.