Let the past be a memory, not a destination.
They like to blame Shay. We called her Shy, because at that age the only thing better than discovering irony is the invention of lying. Real lies. The good, sour, sting-your-tongue lies. The kind with purpose and plot. Teenaged girl lies.
We were sun-soaked desire chasing lust. Terrorists in cutoffs. Hair. Gauze curtains, tentacles. Lying eyes. Mischief eyes. Lucy in the sky with diamonds. Teen. Aged. Girls. The worst kind. Dangerous minds. Ask anyone, we were writing a chaos opera. Quite aggressively female.