Texty: Hollywood. Starving Artists. Hopeless.

I followed hope to the end of the road. We lost sight of the reasons we roam. the only things we call our own has turned from mountains to stones. Sitting perched in this cul-de-sac, my brightest days are turning black. If this is growing up how far can I go? Singing the blues that you use to know all I can do is feed the crows. And when life seems bitter sweet it'll rot your fucking teeth. feed the crows