smog
life is a puzzle. one complicated pattern of organizations with one. common. theme. Squares.
four sides to every division.
left. right. up. down.
north. east. south. west.
the chess board was set up side down. when did that black pipe start looking like a rook?
and then the canister of disappointments leaning to the empty side of the ''savings'' envelope. red. painted with chinese characters marching vertical.
Dust spatters clogging up ones head. "I'm not smoking any more." And her head is cured! the errupting cancer will not spread through venting systems of pollution ANY more!
musty perfume is more than a little old. With the cursed letters of M&Q scripted across the front. yellow. more like gold from a garden frollicking somewhere with the watch chain.
honey... i'm going south to try and get a cheap botle of white wine, meet me around sixish.
And the booth was closed for betting. cash crumpled into checkered lifestyles, wallets weren't necessary. nor did they bother.
deep into the hunger of what was called ink. for a type writer ribbon and a chance to meet romance itself.
Are you having an affair with the sun light in my warehouse windows?
They boast with yellow and orange skipping hand and hand across the wood of lines. of shadows. of glimpses. of direction.
and the gangly gold of a pocket-watch; sulks hungry against the thread of 8:43.
"Smoking's not in my canister of red envelopes." She flicks her annoyance around me like a puzzle.
four sides to every division.
left. right. up. down.
north. east. south. west.
the chess board was set up side down. when did that black pipe start looking like a rook?
and then the canister of disappointments leaning to the empty side of the ''savings'' envelope. red. painted with chinese characters marching vertical.
Dust spatters clogging up ones head. "I'm not smoking any more." And her head is cured! the errupting cancer will not spread through venting systems of pollution ANY more!
musty perfume is more than a little old. With the cursed letters of M&Q scripted across the front. yellow. more like gold from a garden frollicking somewhere with the watch chain.
honey... i'm going south to try and get a cheap botle of white wine, meet me around sixish.
And the booth was closed for betting. cash crumpled into checkered lifestyles, wallets weren't necessary. nor did they bother.
deep into the hunger of what was called ink. for a type writer ribbon and a chance to meet romance itself.
Are you having an affair with the sun light in my warehouse windows?
They boast with yellow and orange skipping hand and hand across the wood of lines. of shadows. of glimpses. of direction.
and the gangly gold of a pocket-watch; sulks hungry against the thread of 8:43.
"Smoking's not in my canister of red envelopes." She flicks her annoyance around me like a puzzle.