like shaking an ashtray to one side, the east becomes queer comfort. like laying in the back of a second-hand hearse while the stars write our histories. challenge foregone conclusions; choices made anon. memorial flailing and blackmail. they tell you that faith will come soon enough, but it never does. our misunderstanding of darkness has a rhythm. a beat lost in the void. or, was it a beast lost to the rhythm? matters naught, due to misplaced throng psychology. fucking muster this, mister; they will eat you alive. they smell fear, those armed with minimal mental ability.
No comments:
Post a Comment