so i push my luck with every drink. and every time i move, it feels like i'm spending something which can't be spent. pushing and pushing. who do i have to thank for thinking ill about feeling good? who holds the grenade from which i've pulled the fucking pin?
loss-less luster, or lusterless loss?
let's play scrabble to uncover such frivolous discards. let's allow the alloy of scambio to dictate the outcome of the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment