(no subject)
so it goes like this: the pass burst into sporadic flames while driving to moses lake, and if you read this it's merely a symbol. congregation of words shoving and pissing on each other. how can it be described? it's one thing to have the trip at your fingertips and another to have it on paper. your mouth and arms flail around probing crevices that were past and gone. you're faking an orgasm; not even measurably close to the real thing but you believe it is. eyes focusing and dilating taking in instructions of the silver encrusted moon. it's as though the bluish rays uncover autumn for what it really is, winter. the air is so thin and crisp while laying out on the lawn close-to naked watching the shooting stars through the vapor rising from your moist skin, rippling. maybe the stars burn and shine on because they always have. we strain our tiny heads towards the heavens for salvation, computing movements of the celestial bodies, only to unconsciously rely on a slight wobble of the earth. laced with pot, cheap bear, and hot tub fumes it's so damn vivid and real that you almost piss yourself from the ride.
smoking on the dock.
invading incense.
7am, Sunday.
smoking on the dock.
invading incense.
7am, Sunday.