about: plastic sun

If I ever end up in a film, it’ll be a drama. I’ll be running through grey streets, my footsteps swallowed by the noise of the city.

It won’t be about some pretty, delicate girl — it’ll be a mockingbird’s dream.

And it definitely won’t have a happy ending. The sun won’t shine sincerely — it’ll feel like a yellow plastic ball, tormented by heavy black clouds.