(no subject)
so the drugs are in effect and there is no plot as empty headstoned as the plotless writing grassy hole filled with shell shaped postponed list of mistakes the msuic is too loud too think but my eyes sprout as new everytime i chnage and transfer from the dead companiuon to the hope womb ravaged but barbed desire and id just like a hug based in the palpitatrions and i just you to know that im scared of what the art can do and i crave the pureness of failure becauee somwehre inbetween making or understanding art and being an artist i think the night reeks of love,.