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Music Emotion Exercise
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Acacia
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Feb 09, 2013 10:55AM
Turn on some music and get writing! Let the music influence your emotions and let the emotions influence your writing.
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Bobby Darin - Softly, As I Leave You(view spoiler)
It was only five AM as he lay next to her, taking in her beautiful face for the last time. She was breathing softly, strands of her soft mocha hair curving around her smooth cheeks. He ran his finger across her bottom lip before pushing some of the tresses away behind her ear. Sighing, he sat up and kissed the top of her head, getting out of bed.
He was cold as soon as the covers left his legs, standing only in his under things. As quietly as he could, he started putting his clothes in a suitcase, his movements slowing with each new item. He felt a weight pushing on his chest, making it hard to breathe or think. Arms feeling weighted as well, he stopped and leaned against the foot of the bed, eyes closed and head tilted back. He didn’t want to do this. He knew he was going to kill her, but at the same time staying would do the same.
Memories ran through his head. Her captivating smile that made his heart soar; her warm eyes that made him melt; her luscious lips on his, kissing him ever so gently yet sending him into a breathless bliss. How long had it been? It didn’t seem like years ago when they met at the picnic; the nights of them sitting underneath the stars or by the fireplace went so fast, with her head cuddled underneath the crook of his arm, listening to the beating of his heart.
What had caused them to fall apart? Whatever it was, he couldn’t bear to remain there until she woke up and was convinced by her embrace to stay for another day; another hour. He had to depart now, as she remained in her sweet dreams, unknowing that the world she was living in would be over as she didn’t see anybody sleeping next to her.
He was such a coward. There was no way he would ever be able to avoid seeing the brokenness of her face if he told her. Those were tears he couldn’t afford to shed; it would only convince him to stay longer. It would only lead to even more pain.
Now dressed and things needed packed, he hesitated at the doorway, looking back. She stirred, moaning softly as she turned onto her back. Taking shaky step towards her, he leaned over and cautiously placed his lips on her forehead, pausing for a few seconds before leaning back and staring at her again. He wished he could see those magnificent brown eyes one last time, or hear her velvety voice whisper his name in his ear, but it would only make him rethink what he was doing.
Pulling his hat over his head, he grabbed his bags and left the house noiselessly. As he boarded the train, he could hear the sound of a woman sobbing as she found a note next to her.
He never knew what happened after that day.
Mod
The A Team, Ed Sheeran
“It was funny the first time, with William.” Robin would say, some twelve hours later, looking at me with this face I had never seen her wear. “The second time too, maybe. But it keeps happening. I would have expected you to learn from your mistakes.”
But, some twelve hours before, it was this:
“Mikey needs to go home, I guess,” Noah was saying. “I’m going to drive him. One of you guys wanna come with me?”
And I said sure, because he wasn’t drunk and I wasn’t too drunk and everyone else was doing something.
“Is it addicting?” Robin would ask, that same twelve hours later, looking at me with this face that I had never seen her wear, and I think it was disappointment.
“Yeah,” I would tell her.
But then: it was a short drive to Mikey’s.
“You wanna go to the park?” Noah asked, after.
I said, “Sure.”
Seconds, minutes. I don’t know.
I don’t remember them, what I said during them, what he said.
Later: a parked car. Us turning to look at each other, at the same time. Him leaning forward and me leaning forward and our lips crashing and our teeth clicking and me thinking, why do I want this so badly?
Slut. The word is defined as “an immoral or dissolute woman; a prostitute.”
“People are going to start thinking you’re a slut,” Robin would say, some twelve hours later, wearing that damn face.
Not then, though. Then it was—
Hands in his hair, running along his back, pressing close enough to feel like we were one person. “Let’s get in the back,” he breathed.
Okay.
Slamming into one another, all over again, pushed up against the wall and then grabbed and pulled into his lap, him saying let’s do it, let’s do it.
Me saying, no, let’s not.
Robin would ask, “Why didn’t you just say no, for Christ’s sake?”
I did.
I just didn’t mean it.
Then there were no clothes, lost on the floor of the car, his body pressing into mine, the feel of the window against my back, hands on his shoulders, lips on his lips, him saying, “Shit, you’re tight—“
“I’m just… I just… I’m disappointed in you,” Robin would say. “I thought you had more self-respect than that.”
Self-respect. Little Bible girl, dressed up cute enough to kill.
He shuddered, pulled away.
Handed me bits and pieces of my clothes.
Later, the Parrot Bay stopped tasting like oranges.
I just drank it like water.
Leaned against the couch, legs pulled to my chest as I sat on the floor.
John was there, a foot away, and he said, “How do I get Robin to like me?”
“Don’t try to change yourself for her,” I said instead of giving a real answer.
Bits and pieces are all I remember.
“I had a girlfriend, once.”
“Yeah, I bet you did.”
“No, I mean a serious one. She killed herself.”
“Why?” Another drink of rum.
“She had three miscarriages. They were all mine.”
“Oh.”
“They told me if I had gotten there seven minutes earlier, I could have saved her life.”
You hear someone talk so smooth and so calm about their own destruction? It’s sad.
“Don’t blame yourself,” I told him.
“I do, every day.”
“But don’t. You’re not the one who made her do it. It was her choice, it was her life. You didn’t do a goddamn thing, but that doesn’t make you guilty. You can’t take credit for what other people decide, can’t beat yourself up for being late.”
“I do, though.”
“Shit happens. People die. You keep living.”
He said, “I know.”
What, some eleven, ten hours later. Robin looking at me and saying, “If I had stayed, or made you go home, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“It was my choice.”
“I know, but if I—“
“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“Obviously not, if you’re making stupid choices! Next time I’m taking you home. I don’t care if you don’t want to see your mom, you’re going home, since I can’t trust you anymore—“
“It was my choice, for Christ’s sake. Stop beating yourself up.”
“I just… thought you had more self respect than that.”
“I guess I’m just a bad person.”
“I can’t… I love you, you’re my best friend, but I can’t go to parties with you if you keep doing shit like this. I don’t like this side of you.”
“Sorry for being self-destructive.”
@KrissYour writing is really good, but…do you write about anything other than teen sexual promiscuity?
Mod
Your writing is really good, but…do you write about anything other than teen sexual promiscuity?"
Yes, actually! Was actually thinking about how snippets from this thing are the only thing I've posted for a while. I'm actually working on another novel entirely with a very different subject, so yeah xD
Ugh I'm sorry this is really bad and it's not how I wanted it to turn out at all. My mind thinks more in movies so this would be much better and emotional if it would have been in movie form (and the one speaking line would have been cut out).Anyway, I'm writing this based on Cavatina by Stanley Meyers. I have this broken down into specific times to go with specific parts.
---
0:00-0:39
The only shade in the garden was the leaves on the tree, its strong branches reaching across the sky and over the table below. There a girl of about seven sat, her wavy caramel hair reaching the middle of her back. She wore a bright yellow dress, designs of pink flowers around the bottom. She was smiling widely, a teapot in her hand, asking the man across from her if he wanted anymore. The man, with chestnut hair, dark eyes, and a sparkling smile nodded, pushing his hat away from the cup as she poured out the invisible tea.
It was warm outside, the sun sitting lazily in the sky, watching the father and his daughter below. She giggled as he made a slight mistake, calling her teddy bear by the wrong name. His eyes were glimmering as he talked to his daughter, happy to be with her on such a nice day. From the distance his wife watched, leaning against the doorway between the kitchen and the backyard, smiling as well.
0:40-1:13
Weeks went flying past, the girl growing taller and gaining more prominent features. Soon it was her thirteenth birthday. She sat in front of a cake with candles sending a soft orange glow on her face, hearing people sing their birthday wishes before she blew them out. Everyone clapped, cheering their happy birthdays again. As the cake was cut, she noticed her father was missing; turning around, she saw him standing in the hallway, reading a letter with a blank expression on his face. The paper was clenched in his hands, eyes moving down it furtively. She was going to call his name, but something made her stop.
1:14-1:57
Misty-eyed, she looked at the ground, the gentle murmur of her father’s voice in her ears. She couldn’t comprehend the words he was saying; they were foreign words in her head, jumbling together in a strange mush she could not unravel. The place they stood was a land from one of her storybooks, only without the princesses and shining knights.
Her father kneeled down to her, although she was considerably taller than him when he did so. She couldn’t bear to look at his face; she was embarrassed of the tears in her eyes. She was thirteen, practically a woman. He heard his gentle voice say her name, his hands gripping her shoulders. The bottoms of his uniform came into view, and a tear slipped out of her eye and onto them as he started talking about going away. His thumbs were at her cheeks, wiping away the stray tears as they came. She scolded herself for giving herself away like that, but she looked up at him into his merry brown eyes as he kissed her cheek and told her he loved her.
After she choked it out back, and threw her arms around him, sobbing silently into his shoulder. He let go after a few seconds, standing up and walking away, his heels clicking against the ground.
Suddenly her mother had her arms wrapped around her, telling her it was time to leave. Her voice was weak, trying to compose it self.
They got into the car, a sad silence between them. The girl looked out the window, watching the building disappear into nothingness, taking her father with it.
1:58-3:06
It had been many seasons. She watched the leaves tumble from the trees and snow pile up on the ground; she watched the children play in the street and grow up as she had.
He stared up at the bunk above him, the hours ticking painfully by. There wasn’t a time where he didn’t think about his family at home, even as a storm of bullets and fire rained upon him.
It had been so many days she had almost lost track. Over those four years she had turned into a beautiful young lady, her hair now a darker color, lips soft and eyes sparkling. She looked just like him, people often told her. She wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, either.
As another fall entered and the various shades of green transformed into stunning colors, a letter came. She held her breath as he mother opened it, afraid of what was inside of it. When he mother’s face turned ecstatic, she jumped at the letter, reading it herself.
He was coming home.
Soon they had set up a party for him, baking a cake and putting up banners. She never stopped smiling, beaming at everything at the thought of having her father with him.
Another letter came.
3:06-3:23
Papers went flying through the air, jewelry being harshly shoved onto the floor. She was screaming, ripping the covers from her bed and throwing her pillows at the wall. Her sobs were loud, her lungs moaning for air as she destroyed everything she saw. She stopped by her vanity for only a second, seeing a picture of her and him before gritting her teeth and knocking it onto the floor. It shattered as it hit the carpet, the glass broken across the picture.
There had been an accident, they said.
She threw herself onto her bed, head buried into her arms as she grieved. It had been four years. He was supposed to stay safe. He was supposed to come back with that warm smile and ask for more tea.
He was supposed to be her daddy.
3:24-3:40
She stared up at the sky as the black box was being lowered into the ground. Her mother was weeping quietly next to her, her shoulders shaking wildly. She couldn’t cry, though. She wasn’t able to. All she could do was stare up at the sky, the same sky she and him had watched ten years ago on a picnic blanket in the backyard after tea. He had pointed out shapes in the cloud, making stories out of bunny rabbits and butterflies playing with the clouds. After he was done she asked him if he was always going to be her daddy, and he said he always will.
The last time she had seen him, he whispered he would always be her daddy. She always held on to that, hoping that maybe the power of love could overcome the enemy and lead him back home, although she knew things didn’t happen like that. That was merely a fairy tale. The real world was full of hurt and evil. Nobody cared about little girls having tea with their daddies.
She was alone in the cemetery, watching the sky and blocking out the voices around her. Finally her eyes went to the cement gravestone in front of her, reading it over and over again, trying to figure out what it said. She kneeled down, stroking her fingers across it, seeing if there was a way to figure out the code in front of her; to decipher this strange message.
On impulse, she whispered, Will you always be my daddy?
There was no response.
3:41-4:21
It had been ages since she walked through that house. When she had left, she could suddenly breathe and see again. It felt strange now to go back through as whispers of her mother’s failing health rang in her ears. It was only a matter of days now, they said.
Her eyes drifted to the mantle on the fireplace. Her heart stopped as she saw it. Slowly walking to it, her fingers reached out and stroked the picture in front of her.
It was the same one that had broken so many years ago.
She hesitantly picked it up, pausing for a moment before putting it back down. She couldn’t touch it. She wasn’t worthy to touch it.
A sad smile crossed her face.
A tear drop hit the mantle.
This was written for a friend on our friendiversary while I listened to a playlist of songs we both love. This describes a specific scene from one of the first days of our friendship.The way she sits fascinates me. I shouldn't pay attention to those things, but I do. I pay attention to others in those moments when they are focused on someone other than themselves. It is then that she exhales humanity with each rise and fall of her chest. Oceans hopes and dreams mix well with the storms of fear, stirring up her goals until they are as powerful as concentrated orange juice on a Monday morning.
I can tell all of this from the way her back is so straight as she listens closely to people greater than ourselves. The only time she bends over is to draw their paths to success. But I can also tell that she, like myself, has the death of dreams hanging around her neck. Like all weights, it strengthens her.
She doesn't have a clue that I'm thinking about this instead of my own participation in this seance with the Muses. There she goes, scratching away with her pencil. Maybe she'll dig through the paper and strike gold. We are in Alaska after all. Together and yet still distinctly separate across thousands of miles of frozen tundra.
I say something, and she turns. I don't know what is up with those eyes. Contacts, like me? No. That can't be it. But she is actually looking me in the face, and I am okay with it for once. I don't enjoy people looking at me often. What do they think? Would they hate me for trying to outshine the sun with my effect on the world? But, with her, I don't care.
She responds. I feel at ease, so I try to say something witty. She laughs, and the sound is so explosive to my reality that it levels all that is around me, and there is no horizon. I could go anywhere. We could go anywhere. Life is stretched before me as arpeggios built on the tone of her laughter ripple through my brain and into my fingers, which start tapping. I stop immediately. I didn't need to share that quirk with her yet. She'd already heard my mouth spilling sand and metaphors and knew I wouldn't stop. I hope she was okay with that, because I didn't want this connection -- with her laughter and straight back and my ringing ears and tearstained eyes -- to ever end.
Whisper of voicesExcited
Hushed tones, neutral shades before the show.
One light!
Bright and illuminating.
It blinds you
You can't see the people,
but you know they're out there
Click of a hard rubber heel
against the wood floor.
The click of shiny Oxfords.
Maestro is center-stage.
As the Maestro raises his arms,
your stomach drops.
One note
from the deep reaches of your voice.
It's joined by others.
You've all waited for this.
More notes join and the voices
mingle in the air.
Weaving and pirouetting in the space above our heads.
Transforming
changing
swooping
diving
exhilaration
Adrenaline races through your being
The song starts to float over each person in the audience.
touches them lightly on the heart
The feeling is so right
the music lifts a smile to your lips.
The song is finished,
but the echos still hang in the air.
Music never leaves, really.
It stays and plays in out minds and being.
Forever there,
forever singing
and forever dancing in your soul.
The power of a song.
((This is what I wrote after a choir festival in Brookings. Performing gives me both an adrenaline rush and a creative flow!!))
I found this on youtube, it's based off the song Fatal Flower Garden by Andrew Bird. It's now becoming a animated show and stop-motion film. Just a little inspiration for those who do this for fun.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0hJPtG...
Mod
Over My Head (Cable Car) - the Fray
(For clarification, the man/boy is going off to fight in WWII--its actually a snippet from a short story.)
“It won’t work for me, Sara. I’m not an officer—Christ, I’m just going to be an enlisted man, and there isn’t anything wrong with that is there? I’ll make some money. I won’t be using it much, so I’ll send what I’ve got to you—“
Frank Sinatra’s Some of Your Sweetness (Got Into My Heart) came on the cassette they had been listening to. Thomas broke off his sentence mid-way and turned to look at her with mischief in his eyes. He began to sing to her, a little off-key but not too badly, and it put an ache in her heart that she knew no one would ever fix.
“Some of your sweetness got into my heart/then into my dreams and right from the start/Two arms, two lips that were always lonely/found happiness and tenderness in your smile!” He moved his shoulders in an improvised jig, and Sara couldn’t keep from laughing for much longer than a second. This is why I love this boy.
The wind from the open window tousled his hair, made him look kiddish until he swept it back with one vaguely annoyed movement of his hand. Then he looked like a man, his bangs pushed back, his features clear and sharp and all grown up.
The idea of temporariness overwhelmed her. And it made her so, so sad.
When she dropped him off at the station, he had leaned over and kissed her, tenderly at first and then with something feverish, desperate in the taste of his tongue.
That kiss was the only sign she ever had that he was not as collected as he had appeared. The only sign that he had been falling apart.
Sara remembers, very clearly, sitting there watching him leave. His trim shoulders and narrow hips, the curl of his brunette hair at the base of his neck. The way that it flipped out around his ears, needing a trim. It was the last time she saw him in person, although she gathered a small collection of photographs after that.
She would never see his hair like that again, though—flipped and boyish, making some maternal part of her want to fix it. Instead, in all his pictures it was shaved in a Jarhead style, adding a new severity to his features.
Sara also never him in color again. Just in grainy black and white. She never saw the gray-blue of those laughing eyes, or the quick flash of his smile, or the flush of his cheeks. The photographs were just shadows of Thomas Emanuel Law the II and in each one (she had only received three) she lost more and more of him. She lost the spark to his eyes, the hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. And Tommy? He lost the laughter, in the pictures.
She methodically restarted the cassette, and sat at the station until the same song he had been singing came on. She finished the second part of it, by herself, singing quietly.
“Some of your sweetness has shown me the way/to live once again, forget yesterday/And build a world of tomorrows that won’t fall apart/Since some of your sweetness got into my heart!”
Sara was not a good singer. There was a trill to her voice, and then a tremble, and then it cracked as a sob wracked her. It was not the goodbye, but the letting go, that broke her.
One of the maintenance men had walked by her car. He peered in her window, knocked on it. When Sara rolled it down, he asked if she was okay.
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
It was a lie. There were tears streaming down her face. But what could you do?
I'm doing my story with the song stay. (By Rihanna)It was the third day of being at the hospital. My grandmother had been here, fighting a cold-sweat and a hot-headed fever.. She was fighting the fever called, Cancer. I had come every day after school.. But, after those few days, we couldnt visit her anymore. I have a lot of regrets from those days. I thought about all of the things that we could have done. But, I had to just sit there, and watch my dying grandmother.
I remember the last time that I saw her, we were doing laundry in the hospital, and we were talking about trail mix and after we were done, she turned to me and said, "Katarina, I'm not going to live forever." And I of course being the six or seven year-old that I was said "yes you will!" And, after that night that I heard myself crying with my stuffed animal, I vowed not to do ANYTHING that my grandmother did with me, like, making blueberry pancakes, or telling funny unicorn stories. But, that had to be the worst day of my life. Now, looking back on it, I realize, how much and what I would give to see her again. I just wanted her to stay.
In loving memory of Kimberly McVey. My guardian angel.
Sorry it's vague. I'm afraid if I get into detail it will be the whole page and back.
Kriss wrote: "Some of Your Sweetness (Got Into My Heart) - Frank Sinatra Over My Head (Cable Car) - the Fray
(For clarification, the man/boy is going off to fight in WWII--its actually a snippet from a short ..."
FRANK SINATRA
*THROWS RANDOM THINGS IN HAPPINESS*
Mod
Over My Head (Cable Car) - the Fray
(For clarification, the man/boy is going off to fight in WWII--its actually a snippet..."
LOL. It was era-appropriate?
Mod
Mod
Kriss wrote: "Emily wrote: "Kriss wrote: "Some of Your Sweetness (Got Into My Heart) - Frank Sinatra Over My Head (Cable Car) - the Fray
(For clarification, the man/boy is going off to fight in WWII--its actu..."
There weren't cassette tapes BUT I LIKE IT
Hey guys please check out my story and comment on there and like it. Tell me what you think (:http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/3...
Mod
Over My Head (Cable Car) - the Fray
(For clarification, the man/boy is going off to fight in ..."
LOL I WAS BSing. While I was writing it I was going, "I'm not sure this is accurate... Hm." I have to correct that, then u__u Was there still radio?
Mod
http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/3..."
Yasmani, this is like the third or fourth time I've told you not to post links to your writing in irrelevant topics. Please refer to the group rules. And from now on I'm just going to be deleting comments like these when I see them. Thanks.
Kriss wrote: "Emily wrote: "Kriss wrote: "Emily wrote: "Kriss wrote: "Some of Your Sweetness (Got Into My Heart) - Frank Sinatra Over My Head (Cable Car) - the Fray
(For clarification, the man/boy is going of..."
Yeah.
Mod
Over My Head (Cable Car) - the Fray
(For clarification, the man/b..."
Alrighty. In the actual short story I fixed it XD Sorry for the incorrectness. I did research just..not on radios.
boopidy boop I'm back without saying the song title because it doesn't go with the lyrics heeeeeeeey---
Newsprint stained his fingers. A fan blew lazily, bare chest sticky as he studied the photograph. Perhaps it was on purpose, perhaps not. The witnesses all swore they knew the man inside the car, but none of them could place one of their bony, accusing fingers on anyone in particular.
He laughed.
Call it sadistic; maybe he was. People were so prone to violence yet so against it. He was the one who looked at the smoldering remains.
God, he missed her.
The alarm went off. He had done the same things for years, doing his day-to-day things mindlessly. It was such a contrast from how active his mind was every night, the reason he was too scared to even go to sleep sometimes.
He met his co-workers outside. Cigarette smoke filled the air. His mind drifted back to the newspaper he read as his co-workers droned on. The man in the car had been successful. The road down a bit needed repairing. People were dumb, insignificant things.
God, he missed her.
I'm listening to "The Way I Loved You" by Taylor Swift. I suggest you check it out. And these characters are people that I'm using in a novel, so don't copy them. And this is kinda long.-------
I lied in my bed, thinking. About Oliver and Isaac. What else did I think about these days, after Isaac and I fell apart?
Oliver was great, sure. He was sweet and treated me like I was queen of the universe, like I was wearing a sign that said, “I am royalty.” Yes, he was awkward, and cheesy, but everyone has flaws. And it was creepy how he acted like we were a couple, but all the songs he had wrote for me on his cello were really awesome. He was endearing, and I was lucky to have him. He said the right things that helped me when I needed help, and he let me cry in front of him. And he was cute, yes. He was so amazing and polite and I felt like I had just received a Christmas present.
The only problem was, I couldn’t love him. Not that I physically couldn’t--I loved him like he was my friend--but…I just couldn’t feel anything around him. The thought of loving him made me want to throw up.
Isaac had broken my heart. He had torn it from my chest, thrown it on the ground, and stomped all over it before spitting at my feet and leaving me to die alone, crying about what we could’ve been, about what we had been through. And then he expected to just say sorry and everything would be okay. He had yelled at me, ignored me, lied to me, kept secrets from me. And he didn’t accept the real me.
What if this was me? What if this was supposed to be me from the time I was born? What if Oliver was right, and Isaac had been holding me back? My music was taking off now. I had a good group of friends, popularity, amazing guys begging for me at my feet, clothes that were in style, and people knew my name. Nobody ever made fun of me anymore. Wasn’t that what I wanted forever? Just to be loved?
I had been loved; when I had Isaac with me.
And now, I was pushing him away when he asked for forgiveness.
My heart didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel whole. Like a piece was missing, and more popularity wouldn’t fill it.
Isaac had a temper; a bad one. We fought. We were from two different worlds. He got on my nerves constantly and I would stay up at night venting my anger. He made me cry. He made me yell. He aggravated me so much. He just wouldn’t accept me for who I had become. He left me alone when I asked him to, though I wanted to be with someone so badly. He was like a mosquito under my skin; itchy and biting and annoying and immature and obnoxious and stubborn.
He had let me cry not just in front of him, he let me cry on his shoulder. He had held me in his strong arms, pulled me close, told me that things would work out for the best. He had wiped away my tears, told me I was beautiful, kissed my cheeks, the top of my head, my lips. He had messed with my feelings, flipped my heart over, made me giddy whenever he looked my way. He had walked me home from school, held my hand, made me laugh. He had sang to me, played the piano with me, texted me late at night because he was worried something had happened to me, forced me to call him when I was safe and sound at home.
It was he who had yelled at people who made fun of me. It was he who got black eyes and bloody noses protecting me from jerks. He decorated my locker on my birthday, wrote me a note just because, listened to me rant on and on about how my siblings and parents were bothering me when his family was ripping at the seams. He let me complain about how unfair life was when he was the one that should’ve been complaining. He climbed up into the big tree in his backyard and jumped onto his trampoline just to show me how daring he was. He stood up when I entered the room. He bought me flowers when I was feeling like I wasn’t worth anything.
Just last year, it was Isaac who sat by a hospital bed, holding my hands, waiting for me to regain consciousness after the school fire. He had risked his life for mine in the fire.
He had run through fire for me.
I loved him. That immature, reckless, clueless, handsome, charming, fifteen year old boy.
And I was letting him get away from me because he broke my heart without thinking.
-------
Okay, that's it;) I really like this exercise so I might do it several times.
