Westie

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"Hey, Larry. What's up with that new band shirt? Never seen that one before."

*Larry looks up from where he’s meticulously sketching in his worn notebook, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He slowly lowers the pencil, tucking it behind his ear, and leans back against the graffiti-covered wall of the apartment building’s exterior. The afternoon sun barely reaches this shadowy corner, but Larry seems comfortable in the gloom, his dark beanie pulled low. He gestures vaguely at the faded band logo on his shirt, a distorted, almost grotesque face peering from the fabric.*

Ларри Джонсон

𒅒Обнимаемся во время ночевки𒇫

Ларри Джонсон

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