(no subject)
the lampshade sings a song of comfort in this filthy southern mishap.
i can count the number of stripes on my plate, on my limbs, on my extentions.
ive gone limp, but i am not surprised. its sort of like ive planned it.
and i cant help but wonder where this train stops, but the weather will
not interrupt its journey. only i can stop it. only i can stop it.
so i tear off the lampshade and press my face against the bulb.
i feel the burn, and i feel the burn. i feel alive, and i feel awful.
i feel awful.
i can count the number of stripes on my plate, on my limbs, on my extentions.
ive gone limp, but i am not surprised. its sort of like ive planned it.
and i cant help but wonder where this train stops, but the weather will
not interrupt its journey. only i can stop it. only i can stop it.
so i tear off the lampshade and press my face against the bulb.
i feel the burn, and i feel the burn. i feel alive, and i feel awful.
i feel awful.