Colt
It's boots and chaps
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo
She's a puddle of contempt and fatigue upon him, as liable to slip off and allow the ground to swallow her as she is to hang on any more. The steel she normally carries, the resolve, it's been slowly cooked away by sand and sun until she's been left with nothing other than a busted give a damn. The only remaining tether to sanity and self-preservation is him. He's still here, going through it all with her, and if he can keep lifting those damn legs, then the least she can do is stay with him.
Though he's slowing, and the manner of it seems to be born of something other than his own refusal to carry on. There's a thought strumming under her, a guitar string plucked and reverberating with ideas and plans she can't hear. "What?" she asks, unable to see around his darkness to the tempting flowers, and unwilling to sit up when she knows the canopy still looms overhead with risk.
If she had a hunch, she's tell him there's absolutely no fucking way they're taking drugs in the desert like a pair of idiot teenagers.
Though he's slowing, and the manner of it seems to be born of something other than his own refusal to carry on. There's a thought strumming under her, a guitar string plucked and reverberating with ideas and plans she can't hear. "What?" she asks, unable to see around his darkness to the tempting flowers, and unwilling to sit up when she knows the canopy still looms overhead with risk.
If she had a hunch, she's tell him there's absolutely no fucking way they're taking drugs in the desert like a pair of idiot teenagers.
It's the ropes and the reins
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
