Little tendency which I will an entrance/out of hand of fox-trot mannerisms, of when panic succumbs to nevermind, I got this, and the vanishing shrine reassembles as bulls cuddling with the double moon. One of those lights on the satellite is mars, you know, and what a mess twin memories are, almost exactly the same except one is horror and one is glee and the bridge beneath them shatters for links and the catchy hook about flying lacks the mercy of real jive and events show up like bribes, ruts in the maya where microcosmic isolation saves my soul, my ka, and my god, and my god
I don't believe in. First feet on the cool marble of all/ vibrating with sin and carving invisible maps into the future heart, because obsession gets boring and all dreams about breasts are good luck, even the recurring one where my own are stuck in your mind like soldiers rejecting their uniforms in the middle of a purple field, and I blush a bent obsidian reluctance, and come so close to waking up
