Give me a moment
I was thinking that it was something that you do that senses. The words are there but what’s the point. It keeps keeps keeps going. I guess thinking doesn’t really get you anywhere apart from when it’s hard enough to do.
Frustration. Every single time. Is it the way you read it or just the way it is? Cooking morality as a proxy image of the future. Fat round kitchen explosions, it’s hard work in this busy hazy city.
Linked manes against each other,
lonesome and less than virtuous.
A service of good conscience with some natural pleasure.
Secret actions couldn’t be concealed if he tried, his body more a sack of knots than a singularly angled wedge.
Licking love from knives. Who are you and who do you want to be?