Her body is made out of swords
Her blood is of iron and her heart of glass
She survived through countless battles
Not even once retreating
Not even once being understood
She was always alone
Intoxicated with victory in a hill of swords
Thus, her life has no meaning
That body was certainly made out of swords
I like Tim. Too bad he doesn’t fuckin’ care.
“Father’s Day.. huh..”
“Looks like another lazy day for me! Anyone want to hang out?”
But I also can’t pretend it didn’t happen. It replays in my brain day in and out.
And days like today. Where everyone points out the past. Makes it a lot harder is all.
Jack Dawson… Penniless artist who wins a ticket onto Titanic in 1912, attends a first class dinner, develops a taste for the finer things in life, pockets the Heart of the Ocean, survives the sinking, pawns the diamond, spends the following ten years building his wealth and in 1922 moves to West Egg as Jay Gatsby… Millionaire with a shady past and fear of swimming pools.