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Arranged like abacus beads on a wire, the first crows of the season appeared. A static blanket falls, you are a decibel of sound encased within a glass chest, gently entombed for the seasoned. cresting upon my lethargy, coursing through a gravel wash. fog refracts the mourning light; just one glimpse of the Helming oeuvres; helium angels. walking at the bottom of the ocean, processing & beckoning 

sirens, burning red the light persists, yet one never quite reaches them. I slump with wooziness. I salivated at the sound of shuffling feet. Masking stupor, soporifc fields crying for the grey and drenched. protruding ties of unforgiving flair gasping fiending for the abyss that is you, murks so sultry and ripe. round, reaming with anger. foaming with pride and never flattered by steaming balneal in the p.m. like hair of the worst heirs, brothers. EXACERBATING. mutable nadirs. The stars will sigh at you, your cortic folds rest within a hand, languidly. the way the light plays over & through your hairs, painting them with an auriferous glow; this is what it’s all for. Just like some kind of mawkish religious experience. Swooning deadfalls, vacant of all ideas. Deranged skies & dimmed epitaphs. do i have any right? only surpassed gently though the magic of elven folly can i fathom the ceremonial drapes that bound upon attentive overgrown green eyes shaped by virtuous guilt, (is guilt a virtue?) never faltering - always moving, surrounded by teeming thymes, feeding fences on the faceless & fixed for fire. carbon-esque. gawk and i’ll pour you and i a tall glass of windex for two. mirthless kinetics, flittering diatoms confound with intermittent precaution. subdue the staggering! sorry i ever doubted your worth, it was really me forgetting who was who. am i you? I am aloof, skipping frames and pressing rewind. previous limitations are Lost. Tendrils in a River, all murmurs drawn to a reverent hush: I cannot make the promise that someday I will be. don’t hide. heavy in aura, i can feel the tides, the EOLIAN WHISPERS. muffled moans, a jarl in his jarldon. pockets of fluff, soaring sanity. Can you teach me about leaves? a slight Renaissance. heathen rotting overcoats raising gallows by your god down in a flurry of their god, the chalice and the blade! amidst cybernetic beasts floating fucking weaving America.
she never thought of her awful luck as being anything but accidents in a very busy place. “Are the stars tiny after all? Who will put us to sleep? Should I save my fingernails? Is matter holy? I want the barber to bury my hair. Who am I to refuse the universe?”