The Daily Journal

This newspaper smells like Christmas, I miss those merry days. My sandwich tastes like winter, and it's falling snowflakes. If I could have it anyway I'd like than I'd make December all year. If I could stretch my arms into the sky than I'd pain it a beat red. This radio sounds like thunder, we call it bad reception. This Frito feels like a December street after a white day. This weather looks like Summer, and it's heated boring days. My bedroom seems like a cemetary where I'll lie the next few weeks.