(no subject)

[stiletostaccato]

as you checked your grandfatehrs pocket watch, you almost knew polished brass was the composition of ones soul. Something faded that doesn't quite hold a reflection, but you check it more than often anyways. Its something about time, hows its so segmented like an athropod's abdomen, legs, and antennae and wanders listlessly between being an informer and punisher. There's a thousand numbers suspended above me like electronic clocks nervously fidgeting between a curious 11:11, a 3:00 witching hour, or just another spin around the 24 hours where I shake so hard the day can't keep up.
its been suggested we're all insane, but I was too busy eating the lead paint off my fingernails to hear the words.