lashes of the tongue run across cigarette ash on shitty glass coffee tables. it’s a strange thing to digest the remarks of people close to you, body temple magistrates are poison sellers, degree holding maniacs with abstractions the constrict your throat.
it’s fine to be here sometimes, when the temperature is pleasing and the sky is open, speckled with clouds that aren’t manufactured and gold. schizo tier ramblings are only required in the happiest of times, the times when your mind can’t filter through the excess of random clippings you found scattered on Broadway, the little jazz bar across from the library is barely holding on.
and soon your walk is coming to an end, a bridge over a murky river, twain wrote about it probably, but it’s different now, and graffiti is reminding you of things you think are cool, and you want to consecrate this moment with nicotine.
you want to consecrate anything
nu-age 