I seem to do better writing the words than so speaking them. But if I were a pleasantry found in a shoe box, I’d unearth the entirety of harking with no absentia as no rebel yell would find herself abandoned. And its this abandonment that my heart doesn’t want to see.
Its so far all good news
You get by on bus lines, railways and foot.
The digested sickness pounding the door
Thick in thought, free of sensation
So then the valve turns when he wishes she were his
Brainwave is not combustible
Something had the nerve
Aroma of care
Back to good air
Sense enough is pure solitude, again these axioms fear turquois. Modeled after clientele factions.
Alone without action.
Digging out, free willed
No context, no clarity
Puzzled, distorted, fixated.
Mucus in my brain enables these transactions.
Peril is protection.