Spit bubling. A black, blue wind. The feeling that was the daily ritual slowly diteriorating; My eyes feeling heavier listening to conversation on a forcee that cleans my brain to pass time, sitting beside this community weighing the flesh of it, measuring the density.
1. The notes were scribbled, sketch like;
fifth puck eons circus providors water bunkering craige after craige. The pimps of death. Escourts, branding deep into the compost pile for the reluctant
It cracked loud and hard. FFar enough a way as to ride the wave. In the pocket silient big beats. Hey angel, was a rad cancer, tropical and sweet. The automatic sheilding stood up and crumbled. Hands gnarling the bronze posture of the soilder's pseudonym. Then the hobby horse neglect drag its heels. Foxer looked out, foggy composition. Every gallon taken for granted would no longer fit into any sort of sympathetic packages. The language from then started to spread sub cultures disbanded save the internet.
3. Folk Lore
my memory as your memory as waters memory. Grandfather limestone. Hold your head down, perfect as it is. The poses and your relations. Sardines, salt, nicotine or another ladel of water which in turns becomes the air so hot you can even breath. To the days were her grandmas house, viles, left in smoke. Thatans ses pooling in that day and the strain put on her eyes.