four AM now
early morning apathy; sky ink-black-blue, scant with sudden-shudder stars. misshapen connect-the-dots wavering in a chill, leafy breeze. bleak windows to the gods. sobs; tender, hurt and young quiver between tears. they shake up a rain stick, to run like scissor snips in the silence. mutts gnaw at their lice-infested coats, matted with the rich scent of their dusty fur and irritated; fight...
i left it behind in that place they call the city. where people do silly things for silly reasons and life seeps between the leaf litter gathered in the gutter. where this goes unnoticed. i swear i’d throw up on a sidewalk. throw up real nice, i would.
The Flavoured Fruits of Futility.
guitarstring: Monster’s meticulous motion makes massive amounts of mayhem, mainly due to munchies. Blackhole bustling by, blockades can’t bar off the bulging behemoth, barely breathing are People, panicking in a perpetual pattern, presumably pulling away from it, Swarming towards the sea, where safety be, swimming swiftly away, from the savage, It is Your Mom. amused by this, i am. mr. dua...
limbs in disarray. dampened kisses in an indian monsoon the silence of cold mornings.