(no subject)
It must have been somewhere around six last saturday night or rather sunday. The magnolia morning burning over the horizon and piercing through curtains to taint the repeating, repeating tiles. My imagination is still skipping beats about my head from the shrooms I was on earlier. In my bed I'm squeezed between a girl and the wall, never comfortable. Passed out beside me she wheezes for air, a metronome lullaby. Who knows how long she's breathed smoke, lungs perhaps already charred. But her breasts heave in perfection so I can look beyond the shallow.