And you try and you try and you try and it's not worth it anymore, like a systematic rape of routine--becoming atrophied and bored like the cunts you hatched from
I'm through with this game, through. There is no place left to go but barren dawn and children in pancake makeup set to a stage of milieu from far-off places. The stranger the better son.
A desert of nothingness co-mingled with ecstasy in the brush behind the dessert stand where we ate strawberry ice cream in creamy mouthfuls while being deranged to the fact that we could not land anywhere we look across from each other and see alien things, not so alien, forgotten but now here in the now
The set-up and the stage where it is these things take place and we can act the same act like we've acted since we were kids--little nothing's at the beginning of time when life was new and exciting and now it is only stale and boring
Strip ourselves from exile, humanity, decend into golden unknown territories when all i'd rather do is smoke marihuana and shoot junk all over your face but inside my throbbing veins with lungs implied
I have typed out so many many words and yet have said so little--so little of what I say is any relevance as a dark schemed coloured cloud in asphyxiation the clown dies a little more with ravishes of neon on his fendered face--poor thing crawling all over himself to burst rainbow on children but falling massively limp upon himself
Fly over the ocean in a harem of dreams crushed; these words are the same, they are nothing; and I shall tell you this over and over again--but will anyone care in the first place where the words begin?
Do I have schizophrenia? Am I dumb? Am I pretentious?
Many of our emotions are never answered, all our criticisms are always answered, always, and absolute is the rule.
"Clinch it" and they will bow at your feet and make amazing arousals happen, it is what every author is looking for in their hearts
8(
I'm through with this game, through. There is no place left to go but barren dawn and children in pancake makeup set to a stage of milieu from far-off places. The stranger the better son.
A desert of nothingness co-mingled with ecstasy in the brush behind the dessert stand where we ate strawberry ice cream in creamy mouthfuls while being deranged to the fact that we could not land anywhere we look across from each other and see alien things, not so alien, forgotten but now here in the now
The set-up and the stage where it is these things take place and we can act the same act like we've acted since we were kids--little nothing's at the beginning of time when life was new and exciting and now it is only stale and boring
Strip ourselves from exile, humanity, decend into golden unknown territories when all i'd rather do is smoke marihuana and shoot junk all over your face but inside my throbbing veins with lungs implied
I have typed out so many many words and yet have said so little--so little of what I say is any relevance as a dark schemed coloured cloud in asphyxiation the clown dies a little more with ravishes of neon on his fendered face--poor thing crawling all over himself to burst rainbow on children but falling massively limp upon himself
Fly over the ocean in a harem of dreams crushed; these words are the same, they are nothing; and I shall tell you this over and over again--but will anyone care in the first place where the words begin?
Do I have schizophrenia? Am I dumb? Am I pretentious?
Many of our emotions are never answered, all our criticisms are always answered, always, and absolute is the rule.
"Clinch it" and they will bow at your feet and make amazing arousals happen, it is what every author is looking for in their hearts
8(
