(no subject)
it is the dreamy, sunset pink that hides the true bellyache for sale in cotton candy. it is the growl in the gut of loss where hunger lives but gumption does not. it is the time i yelled when you turned on the bathroom fan to suck up the steam for it fogging the mirror though it was keeping me warm. once, i thought i may have felt regret and that maybe the cold wasn't so bad, but that can't be right. your mirror, though.
a man from new jersey tells me often that i can not let myself become a cat in a litter box. he's right. how much time can you spend burying shit before all you are is a kicking leg
it is the times when as an audience of fiction i wonder how long i have been watching my feet as they pound along the ground. how much did i miss?
you should read more. you should burn more. i held a fire for 4 straight days until it didn't feel like fire anymore, only something that needed fuel. is that okay? pick up your head.
it is the silence that is sedentary and expanding, a proofing loaf, surrounded by laughter and poker, held against the wall by the heavy hickory table. it was commissioned. buy local.
a man from new jersey tells me often that i can not let myself become a cat in a litter box. he's right. how much time can you spend burying shit before all you are is a kicking leg
it is the times when as an audience of fiction i wonder how long i have been watching my feet as they pound along the ground. how much did i miss?
you should read more. you should burn more. i held a fire for 4 straight days until it didn't feel like fire anymore, only something that needed fuel. is that okay? pick up your head.
it is the silence that is sedentary and expanding, a proofing loaf, surrounded by laughter and poker, held against the wall by the heavy hickory table. it was commissioned. buy local.