when summer's all but left you with your scarf opportunities the mornings are bright but the tips of your fingers can freeze you can't feel a thing as you look through your pockets for your keys but if the seasons were stable the condensation would be breeze 
so put down your phone and come show some attention to me this works made me crazy each scene means there’s nothing to see but the ambition that feeds me’s so greedy it won’t set me free from endless confessing assessing my sincerity

I'll bide my time.

a woman is cursed all because of her wandering thigh as a boy meets his thirst for the first time with a wandering eye in sin I'll immerse but what's worse I'll do it in spite since there's no hope for we who can't be in bed with just the night

I'll bide my time

I would head for home but there's nothing to open that door the heart of the country has wrung me out desperate and poor my friends have all shunned me they say I'm becoming a bore I love you it's true but I hate everyone so much more

I Bide My Time

In 2017, Theresa Dismay woke up and walked into London.
A  London that had turned itself inside out. Haunted by it’s lost futures. Thinly spread. Truly modern. The first metropolis to disappear. A city put under siege by a historic centre.  By a level quayside. By suburbia. London was cashing out, choking down. Obscure, private and unreal.
She woke up in an attempt to break the spell of this loneliness.
To take longer to reflect than a mirror.
To see.