there is a subcontinental gash in my field of vision. seismically speaking...well, i won't do that. but there is not a tremor strong enough to move that sepulchre out of my heart, which by the way is not a container.
the fermentation process i buoyantly used for you is only resulting in an oil spill, split up by a geometrical morning. slick, volatile shit. and not the colorful, shapeless-ness i had imagined.
fashionable convictions.
parochial euphemisms.
i need a better excuse for being this age.
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