texts: The West End.  We buy it off the streets.  I can stop, you know, and she can't. Two people, really similar, we can talk about anything, but for me it's like a weekend thing, then I get my shit together, and for her it's different --
labels: You don't know what the hell you're talking about.  You're a cocky seventeen year-old and you don't have a clue what the stakes are. You don't know the value of the life you've yet to throw away.  And neither does she.