POETRY IN MELODY AND MELANCHOLY

We move on. Or we don’t. Stuck in the amber of the Fashion District, under neon signs that hum like they’re alive but burn out just the same. Mitchell Royel snaps a photo, catching me mid-shoulder shrug, cigarette dangling, pretending not to notice. “Back to You” by Billi Royce whispers from somewhere—I don’t know where it’s playing, maybe it’s all in my head—but the words slither into my ears, soft and venomous. The kind of song that lulls you into thinking you’re okay while it tears open every scar you thought had healed. It’s all the same, isn’t it? The music, the faces, the lights that blur into halos when you stare too long. None of it sticks. None of it matters. None of it fills the space where something used to be. Something wild. Something clawing and loud and messy. Now it’s just a whisper, a faint ripple, a feeling you can't quite name.

It started in the basement, like it always does—hot, sticky, desperate. The air was thick enough to choke on, laced with sweat, stale beer, and that unspoken hunger for something more. The plan? Burn it all down, metaphorically—or maybe not. Music so loud it throbbed in your ribs like a warning, bodies crammed tight enough to blur the edges of where you ended and someone else began. A tornado of alcohol, dollar bills dumped in heaps for a DJ who didn’t deserve it, snacks melting in untouched piles. Chaos wasn’t the goal—it was the vibe. And for a while, it hit just right. Invincible. Immortal. Like we had bottled perfection and could pour it shot by shot all night.

But perfection’s a liar. It never holds long, and we should’ve known. It started with the breaker. Someone—of course it was someone—decided the speakers weren’t loud enough and plugged some Frankenstein power strip into another. Flash! Darkness swallowed the room, cheers warped into confused howls. The music died a strangled death, leaving us standing in the void. Nothing but breathing, awkward laughs, and the scrape of sneakers on concrete. Then the lights sputtered back, too bright, too real. And for a surreal, fleeting second, it made sense. Like, was this what it’s all about? A stupid, weird, messy basement and some kind of stupid, weird, messy clarity?

Then came the road trip idea. How? Why? Who even started it? That piece of information’s gone now—vomited out amidst the mess. But it latched on fast, spinning in the air like wildfire and racing through the crowd. “Downstate,” someone said. “Now. Right now.” No one questioned it. Why would they? When stupid feels right, nothing else matters. Suddenly we were in a car—or four or five cars—speeding into the dark. Windows down, music blaring louder than sanity, bodies leaning out to howl at the stars. Kings. Like, actual kings of adrenaline, immortal gods with nothing ahead but possibility.

And that’s when the cracks started to show, though we didn’t see them for what they were. Not yet. But his grin—it wasn’t real. It was too wide, stretched to breaking, his eyes looking past us like he wanted out. None of us cared. We were flying too fast to stop, giddy and stupid and entirely detached from reality.

But I saw it later. Really saw it. Back at the locker rooms, harsh fluorescent lights buzzing louder than the silence between words. Everything slowing down, the world coming apart at the seams. I heard him before I saw him—just murmuring at first, a low hum of words. But then her name. Her. Like the only thing tethering him to something real. It was disgusting. Her name hung there like poison gas, and I followed the sound, doing what you always do when curiosity kills reason.

He was curled up—actual fetal position—muttering her name over and over like it could fix something. It couldn’t. My voice hit him harder than it should’ve, or maybe just hard enough. “Are you kidding me?” The words hit harder than a punch, and his head snapped up. Guilt. That’s all I saw. Guilt and nothing else. He didn’t even try to bluff or lie or flinch. Just sat there, paralyzed. If guilt could kill, he’d have been a chalk outline by then.

Word spread fast. There are no secrets in a group like ours, not when blood runs hot and loyalty is everything. We turned on him sharp, fast, final. All the trust, all the nights and laughter and spilled booze—it all evaporated on the spot. He didn’t fight it. Didn’t plead. Just packed his stuff like a robot, dead in the eyes, and went. No screams, no tears, no fight. Just... gone.

Now? The basement’s quieter. The beer’s cheaper. The chaos is muted, whispers of what it used to be. But none of it feels good anymore. The nights don’t soar; they just… happen. Go through the motions. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe this was never supposed to feel good in the first place.

We move on. Or we don’t. Whatever. It’s all the same.

He didn’t fight it. Didn’t beg. Just packed his sad, wilted dreams into boxes that smelled like whiskey and regret, his eyes vacant, hollow—like an old church with all the stained glass gone. He left without a soundtrack, without a single wisp of drama—no screaming, no tears, no pleas to stay. Just a door closing softer than it should have, as if the universe itself didn’t care enough to slam it. And now? The basement hums a different kind of silence. Cold. Sterile. The beer is cheaper, sure, but it tastes like nothing. Like drinking fog. The speakers still bleed music into the night, but the songs don’t reach your chest anymore. They hover in the air like ghosts that don’t know why they’re still here, haunting a place that forgot what it means to be alive.

There’s no chaos, no crashing waves, just a flat, endless ocean under a sky smeared with too much gray. The nights used to crackle with something electric, didn’t they? Or maybe that was just a trick of the light. Now? The nights just drip like melting wax. Slow. Too slow in the wrong places and then gone all at once. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it was never supposed to feel good. Maybe we were always starving in a feast, clinking empty glasses and laughing like it didn’t hurt.

-DECK

NO EASY PITCHES

Captured by Mitchell Royel in the heart of the fashion district (June, 2026), and we’re delivering HARD NOS with 3LW’s "Put Em Up" as the anthem. This wasn’t just a photoshoot, it was a statement—a declaration that compromise isn’t in the vocabulary. Every frame, every pose shouted resilience and clarity. If you blinked, you missed the unapologetic truth of standing firm, unshaken.

It started like most days do in the dead heat of spring—sun high, gear in hand, and a locker room full of stories waiting to spill out. We rolled into the photoshoot like we owned the place—blunt and unapologetic, because that's how it is when you've spent years surrounded by guys who don’t hand out compliments lightly or sugarcoat a single thing. The theme of the day? Hard NOS. Not just a slogan, but a mindset.

The faith-based boxer briefs campaign was fitting, ironic even. Here we were, a lineup of seniors who’ve seen it all—games that went deep into extras, tryouts where the stakes chewed through nerves, and life’s rejections that make a blown call at second base look like a walk in the park. Someone cracked the first pun—something borderline dumb but undeniably clever—and instantly we were riffing. Hard NO this, hard NO that. You’d think the jokes would run dry, but when you’ve practiced shutting it down—on and off the field—it’s an endless well.

And then came the conversation that got real. Someone posed the question—what do you do when people just don’t get it? Guy, girl, doesn’t matter—it’s the ones who can't read the situation, who keep pushing even after you’ve thrown a fastball of rejection straight down the middle. We all agreed, as seniors about to take on life beyond high school, it’s not about beating around the bush. It's a "Look, buddy—you’re out"-kind of energy. You deliver it firm, loud if you need to, and without hesitation. Because respect is a two-way street, and sometimes the only way to set someone straight is to lean into the discomfort and call it as you see it.

By the end of the shoot, the vibe was unshakable. Maybe it was the camaraderie, or maybe it was knowing that holding your ground isn’t just about the big moments, but also the small ones that define who you are. Hard NOS—it’s more than a mindset. It’s the line we draw, loud and proud, no matter how awkward the moment might seem. AXIOMATIC. NONNEGOTIABLE. NO BACKING DOWN.

NO EASY PITCHES

It started like most days do in the dead heat of spring—sun high, gear in hand, and a locker room full of stories waiting to spill out. We rolled into the photoshoot like we owned the place—blunt and unapologetic, because that's how it is when you've spent years surrounded by guys who don’t hand out compliments lightly or sugarcoat a single thing. The theme of the day? Hard NOS. Not just a slogan, but a mindset.

The faith-based boxer briefs campaign was fitting, ironic even. Here we were, a lineup of seniors who’ve seen it all—games that went deep into extras, tryouts where the stakes chewed through nerves, and life’s rejections that make a blown call at second base look like a walk in the park. Someone cracked the first pun—something borderline dumb but undeniably clever—and instantly we were riffing. Hard NO this, hard NO that. You’d think the jokes would run dry, but when you’ve practiced shutting it down—on and off the field—it’s an endless well.

And then came the conversation that got real. Someone posed the question—what do you do when people just don’t get it? Guy, girl, doesn’t matter—it’s the ones who can’t read the situation, who sit through an obvious joke and try to force the punchline into something it’s not, or who keep pushing even after you’ve thrown a fastball of rejection straight down the middle. You drop the hint, the pun, or the subtle smile that says, “It's not that serious,” but some people just can’t take a Hard NO.

We all agreed, as seniors about to take on life beyond high school, it’s not about beating around the bush. A joke that lands flat, someone getting too close—whatever the situation, it’s a "Look, buddy—you’re out"-kind of energy. You deliver it firm, loud if you need to, and without hesitation. It’s how you make it clear when the banter stops being banter and the boundary becomes a bright, unmissable line.

Because respect is a two-way street, and sometimes the only way to set someone straight is to lean into the discomfort and call it as you see it. No tap-dancing around awkwardness, no second-guessing whether they’ll think you’re overreacting. Hard NOS are how we stop the back-and-forth and make it crystal clear where we stand—no exceptions, no misunderstandings.

By the end of the shoot, the vibe was unshakable. Maybe it was the camaraderie, or maybe it was knowing that holding your ground isn’t just about the big moments, but also the small ones that define who you are. Hard NOS—it’s more than a mindset. It’s the line we draw, loud and proud, no matter how awkward the moment might seem. AXIOMATIC. NONNEGOTIABLE. NO BACKING DOWN.

-Deck

THEY WERE OFFENDED BY THE RIDERS AND I WAS RUNNING THIS BRAND ON RETAIL MONEY

Captured by Mitchell Royel somewhere between the cobblestones and the quiet of the Fashion District —
where the light falls soft and the fabric tells secrets.

And if you listen close, you'll hear it drifting through —
I LOVE IT by Jessica Jarrell & Please Don’t Go by Mike Posner
the kind of songs that makes you feel like you're already in a memory.

Some moments don't ask to be posed.
They just ask to be felt.

Dear Friends, Critics, Supporters, and Anyone Who Has Ever Tried to Build Something Before the World Understood It,

There is a strange moment in the life of a young brand when you realize people are no longer only responding to the product, the photographs, or the intention. They are responding to everything they believe is attached to it. That was one of the earliest lessons I learned while building Mitch Leyor.

In the beginning, the brand was small. Not “small” as a branding strategy, but small in the real sense. Boutique. Scrappy. Held together by faith, taste, limited resources, borrowed time, and the kind of belief that does not always make sense on paper. We were not operating with corporate budgets or teams of consultants. I was running the brand on what was left of a retail supervisor’s yearly pay from places like Abercrombie & Fitch and Banana Republic after bills were subtracted. Rent, food, transportation, basic life expenses — once those were handled, the dream had to survive on whatever remained.

So when people in high places became offended, I was genuinely flabbergasted.

Not because I thought the brand was above critique. It never was. But because the scale of the reaction felt so disconnected from the reality of what we were building. From the outside, people imagined machinery. From the inside, it was sacrifice. They saw press, photos, brand ambassadors, and presentation. I saw receipts, overdraft anxiety, favors, late nights, and a founder trying to make a vision look more stable than it actually felt.

A major point of offense became the brand ambassadors’ riders.

For anyone unfamiliar with that word, a tour rider is a list of demands or requirements that an artist gives to a venue before a performance. It can include anything from food and drinks backstage to hotel preferences, transportation, security, lighting, dressing room conditions, or very specific personal requests. Some riders are practical. Some become legendary because they reveal how much power, comfort, or control an artist expects while on the road.

When I say the brand ambassadors’ riders became an issue, I mean that certain expectations, preferences, and attachments around the ambassadors began to carry more weight than the work itself. The riders were not just logistical. They became symbolic. People looked at who was representing the brand, what they wanted, what they expected, and what they seemed to imply — and then they built entire narratives around it.

The early imagery featured primarily Caucasian male models. That was part of the first visual language of Mitch Leyor: clean, classic, masculine, and direct. It was a beginning, not a final thesis. But beginnings are often judged as if they are permanent declarations. We released the images. The press came. Attention grew. Then, almost immediately, so did the assumptions.

People were not only reacting to the models. They were reacting to the “riders” they believed came with them — the perceived demands, privileges, cultural signals, and unspoken meanings attached to those ambassadors. Some saw exclusion where we saw an early chapter. Some saw arrogance where we were still trying to afford the next shoot. Some saw a fully funded statement when the truth was much humbler: a boutique brand trying to stay alive.

That gap between perception and reality was painful.

The Bible says in Proverbs 18:13, “To answer before listening — that is folly and shame.” I thought about that often. I watched people answer questions we had not been asked. I watched judgments form before conversations happened. I watched offense travel faster than truth. And if I am honest, my first response was not always holy. Sometimes it was frustration. Sometimes it was silence. Sometimes it was the private exhaustion of wondering how something so small could be made to look so calculated.

But James 1:19 gives a better instruction: “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” That verse became a discipline. Not an easy one, but a necessary one. Crisis management, especially when you are under-resourced, requires a special kind of restraint. You cannot afford to react to every accusation. You also cannot afford to ignore every concern. Wisdom is learning the difference.

So we listened. We examined what was fair. We rejected what was false. We did not apologize for having a beginning, but we accepted the responsibility to grow beyond it. We widened the lens. We expanded the visual language. We allowed the brand to mature without pretending the early chapter never existed.

There is a difference between conviction and stubbornness. Conviction says, “This is what I believe, and I will build from it with integrity.” Stubbornness says, “I refuse to learn.” I never wanted Mitch Leyor to be stubborn. I wanted it to be honest.

Matthew 7:1 says, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.” That verse is often quoted, but not always practiced. It does not mean we avoid accountability. It means we approach people with humility because we rarely know the whole story. Many people who judged the brand did not know the financial reality behind it. They did not know what it meant to create under pressure, to negotiate with limited leverage, or to carry a public-facing image while privately calculating what could be afforded after bills.

And still, I believe criticism can be useful. Proverbs 27:17 says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” Some criticism sharpens you. Some only cuts. The task is to let the right kind make you better without letting the wrong kind make you bitter.

Looking back, I understand why the riders mattered. In fashion, image is never just image. A model is never only a model. A brand ambassador is never only a face. Everything communicates. Everything carries meaning. Even silence says something. Even a small brand can create a large reaction if people believe it represents something bigger than itself.

But I also wish more people had understood the humanity behind the work.

Mitch Leyor was not born from excess. It was born from resourcefulness. It was not launched from a tower. It was built from the ground, with retail pay, faith, pressure, and the belief that something beautiful could come from very limited means. The offense around the ambassadors’ riders taught me that perception can become its own crisis. It also taught me that crisis can become a classroom if you are humble enough to learn without surrendering your soul.

So this letter is not a defense of perfection. There was no perfection. It is a testimony about growth.

We built. We were misunderstood. We adjusted. We kept going.

The Bible says in Galatians 6:9, “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” That is the spirit I carry forward. Do not grow weary because people misread your beginning. Do not abandon the work because offense arrives before understanding. Do not let people with more power define the meaning of what you built with sacrifice.

Mitch Leyor was never meant to be a statement of exclusion. It was a beginning — imperfect, ambitious, pressured, and real. And like all beginnings, it had to grow.

With honesty, faith, and gratitude,
Mitchell Royel, Deck

THE NAME THAT ENTERED FIRST

He was one of three brothers, which meant he was never only himself.

Snapped by the legendary Mitchell Royel in the Fashion District, where swag meets vibes, and right now listenin to "Good Energy" by Beachcrimes.

That is the strange thing about a family name. It does not wait for permission. It walks ahead of you. It sits in the pew before you arrive. It shows up on report cards, church sign-up sheets, community events, and quiet conversations between adults who think young people are not listening.

By the time he was old enough to understand it, the name already had a shape.

Respectable.
Reliable.
Raised right.
Good boys from a good family.

Not rich. Not powerful. Not the kind of family with buildings named after them or money tucked away in places nobody talks about. Just known. And sometimes being known is its own kind of inheritance.

The three brothers carried that inheritance together.

From the outside, they seemed cut from the same cloth. They had the same reputation around town. Similar volunteer hours at church. Good grades. Polite handshakes. The kind of faces older women smiled at in grocery store aisles because they remembered them from Sunday mornings.

People saw them and thought they understood the story.

Three brothers.
Same house.
Same values.
Same family name.
Same quiet expectation to not stain it.

And he understood why people thought that way. Reputation has a way of smoothing the edges. It turns complicated people into simple sentences. It makes a family look like a clean window from the street, even when every room inside has its own weather.

He knew the truth was never that clean.

One brother, the one many would never question, had been living with a private pattern for years. A chronic cheater. More than a decade had passed since he had been faithful to his girlfriend. Not a rumor that drifted in with the wind. Not some careless moment lost to youth. A long, hidden habit. A second life folded beneath the first.

Another brother had recently checked out of rehab after serious addiction issues. That was a different kind of pain. Not something to gossip about. Not something to use as a weapon. Addiction does not arrive politely, and recovery does not leave a person untouched. It changes the air in a family. It makes everyone speak softer, or not at all.

He did not look at either brother as a headline.

That would be too easy.

People love to turn private fractures into public entertainment. They love the fall more than the wound. But he had lived close enough to know better. Shame is loud, but grief is quiet. And families often carry both without knowing where to set them down.

Still, truth matters.

That was the part he could not ignore.

Because from the outside, all three brothers still looked like versions of the same story. Same last name. Same community respect. Same church memories. Same grades once praised by teachers. Same image reflected back by people who had no idea what lived behind it.

And maybe that was what made it all feel so delicate.

A reputation is not always a lie. Sometimes it is only incomplete.

A family can be respected and still be hurting. A person can be praised in public and dishonest in private. A brother can be loved deeply and still be responsible for the damage he causes. Another can be fighting for his life in recovery while the world still expects him to smile like nothing broke.

He had learned that appearance and truth are not enemies, exactly. They are more like neighbors with a fence between them. They hear each other moving around at night. They know the other exists. But most people only visit one side.

The public side was easy.

Show up. Serve. Smile. Keep the name clean. Be the kind of man people assume you are.

The private side was harder.

Tell the truth, at least to yourself. Do not confuse silence with loyalty. Do not mistake a good reputation for a good life. Do not let the family name become a curtain so heavy nobody can breathe behind it.

That was where reputation management became more than vanity.

For some people, the phrase sounds shallow. Like polish. Like performance. Like pretending to be better than you are.

But for him, it meant something older and heavier.

It meant understanding that a name carries memory. It meant knowing that every choice echoes beyond the person making it. It meant recognizing that even a family without wealth can still have something valuable to protect.

Honor is not reserved for the rich.

A family does not need status to care about its name. It does not need land, legacy, or social power. Sometimes all it has is the way people speak of it when nobody from the family is in the room.

That matters.

Not because people’s opinions should rule a life. They should not. A person who lives only for approval becomes a ghost in his own skin.

But reputation still matters because trust matters. Character matters. The people connected to you matter. The name on your back may not belong only to you.

He knew that sounded unfair in some ways.

One brother’s choices should not define all three. One person’s secrets should not stain everyone standing nearby. Yet families are not built like separate houses on separate hills. They are closer than that. What breaks in one room can be heard through the walls.

So he carried the name carefully.

Not perfectly. Never perfectly.

Just carefully.

He did not want to live like a man obsessed with image. He did not want to become cold, polished, and hollow. But he also did not want to pretend that image meant nothing. There is a balance somewhere between honesty and restraint, between protecting dignity and protecting denial.

He was still trying to find it.

Maybe that is what growing older does. It teaches a man that the family portrait was never the whole family. It was only a frame. A moment. A version of the truth where everyone stood still long enough to look united.

But life moves.

Brothers make choices. Secrets grow roots. People recover. People lie. People change. People fail the name they were given, then wake up one day and decide whether they will keep failing it.

And through all of it, the name remains.

Not as a crown.

More like a lantern.

Something carried through dark places. Something that can be dimmed, but not always destroyed. Something that asks, quietly and again, what kind of light a person plans to leave behind.

He was one of three brothers.

To the world, that meant they shared a reputation.

To him, it meant they shared a responsibility.

And the difference between those two things was where the real story lived.

-Deck, Mitchell Royel

HAPPILY EVER AFTER IS JUST ME, ALONE, AND FREE

Now playing: Bounce by Calvin Harris feat. Kelis (Radio Edit)
Captured by Mitchell Royel in Malibu, California in 2013

You know what’s fucked up?
I cried today.
Like, really cried.

For the first time in I don’t even know how long. Not those pathetic little tears you get when you’re trying to feel something—I mean the kind that rips through your chest like you’re finally letting something out that’s been rotting inside you for years. The kind that makes your whole body shake, makes you pull over to the side of the road because you can’t see through the windshield anymore.

I’m driving down PCH right now, windows down, salt air mixing with my tears, and I’m screaming. I’m screaming to this pop-punk shit I would’ve been mortified to admit I listened to back when I was trying to be whoever the fuck they wanted me to be. Back when I was performing for an audience of people who didn’t even like me, they just liked the version of me that made them feel better about themselves. The version that laughed at their jokes, that stayed small, that never outshined anyone, that played the supporting role in everyone else’s story.

God, I fucking hate them. Is that allowed? Am I allowed to say that? Because I do. I hate every single person who made me feel like I had to shrink. Every friend who wasn’t really a friend, just someone keeping tabs, collecting ammunition, waiting for me to slip so they could feel superior. That whole suffocating bubble we called a life—it was a cage. A pretty, Instagram-worthy, aesthetically pleasing cage with the right lighting and the right people and the right fucking brunch spots, but a cage nonetheless.

And the rage—Jesus Christ, the rage I feel when I look back. Not sadness. Not nostalgia. Not even disappointment. Pure, white-hot fury at the time I wasted, the person I pretended to be, the dreams I put on hold because they didn’t fit the aesthetic of our little manufactured reality. I was so busy being palatable, being acceptable, being the person who didn’t make waves or ask for too much or want things that made other people uncomfortable, that I forgot I was supposed to be alive.

You know what the worst part is? I can pinpoint the exact moments I betrayed myself. Every time I laughed when I wanted to scream. Every time I said “I’m fine” when I was drowning. Every time I pretended to care about their drama, their petty bullshit, their manufactured problems that only existed because they had nothing real to worry about. I became an expert at reading the room, at shapeshifting, at being whatever they needed me to be in that moment.

And they used me. They fucking used me. I was the therapist, the cheerleader, the yes-man, the emotional dumping ground, the one who always showed up, always forgave, always understood. And what did I get? Breadcrumbs. Conditional love. Friendship with an asterisk. “We love you, but…” “You’re great, except…” “We’d invite you, but you wouldn’t really fit in with…”

I remember being embarrassed by the music I actually liked. Can you believe that? I would delete songs from my Spotify before anyone could see them. I’d pretend to be into whatever indie bullshit they were obsessed with that week, nodding along like I gave a shit about some band’s “raw authenticity” when all I wanted was to blast the cheesy, emotional, unironic music that actually made me feel something.

But here’s the thing—I’m done. I’m so fucking done. Clean slate. Blank canvas. Scorched earth. Whatever cliché you want to use, I don’t care anymore because I’m not performing for anyone. I’m not looking back. Not at them, not at who I was, not at any of it. The rearview mirror is dead to me. That person I was? They’re gone. They had to die so I could finally start living.

The ocean’s on both sides of me right now, and I’ve got this song cranked so loud my throat’s raw from singing, and for the first time in forever, I feel like I can breathe. Like I’m not performing. Like I’m not apologizing for taking up space. Like I’m not waiting for permission to exist the way I want to exist.

My hair’s whipping in the wind, and I probably look insane—crying and screaming and laughing all at once—but I don’t care. I don’t care who sees me. I don’t care what they’d think. That’s the whole fucking point. I spent years caring what they thought, and it nearly killed me. It killed the real me, anyway. The me that had opinions and desires and a personality that didn’t revolve around making other people comfortable.

They can keep their bubble. They can keep their group chats and their inside jokes and their little kingdom of judgment and superficiality. They can keep pretending that their lives are perfect, that their friendships are real, that they’re happy in their matching outfits and coordinated Instagram posts. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to be in their photos. I don’t want to be at their parties. I don’t want to hear about their lives or pretend to care about their problems.

I want to be free. And for the first time, I am.

The sun’s setting over the water, painting everything gold and pink, and it feels like a sign. Like the universe is saying, “This is your moment. This is your clean slate. This is where your life actually begins.”

I’m never going back. Never. I’d rather be alone than surrounded by people who make me feel empty. I’d rather scream in my car by myself than sit in silence with people who never really heard me anyway.

They’re in the past. And I’m driving away from it as fast as this shitty Honda will take me.

Gone. Finally, fucking gone.

-Deck