well really there is absolutely nothing going on except i am dying i am dead
it’s hard to say it’s even easier to mean than it is to say although i have no strength for either anymore i was as clear
as i could possibly be which is i was prone to tremendous focus but now this has all but destroyed me
who is this how do i say who is this midthought snare simple worthless guise specious guise
sugarcoated the insoluble emblem of the gordian knot this was my doing a footnote in simian
aesthetics a long since forgetting
we stood casting our eyes about for better places to affect an illegal transmission in a public
place, the advance decimation of the thousand yet unborn yet this was not a backalley abortion
no but some amorous foreplay,
It’s in these spit-soaked upper limbs that I find the greatest form of contortion. The pull of bone and sinew, sex-rocked and worn-out. The strain of brutalized muscle. Muscle that could only wish it had worked as hard as my feet. Those feet that pitter-pattered, a prostitution cacophony. As if in warning. To tell of my coming. The money was easy. The drugs were easier. A shot, sniff, swallow… a three-way assault into modern heaven.