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then just detach like a flower that lost the trust in its very own dung heap and had to force fluttering flutterbys out of its iris'. Nobody's going to show up and explain to you the meaning of each crater on your face, and there will never be a real life jeff bridges that you can just hang your cap on and nod to in the shadows. That's a huge point in life I think, and FUCK YOU, and that's also a huge point in life too. Nobody does this anymore. Drag a filet mignon across the librarian's desk and say, with your voice soft enough to elicit new blooms of FUCK YOU pre-spring flowers,
your gift is raped
soon you'll be dead.
soon
so soon
the embers you dismissed; they'll all come back in a fragrant bouquet.
Now how long until you peak 'round that
impossible elbow?
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