The slug exits mole city, it rickets and bumps against the sides of the lane. I could conjure an image so fast, faster than you. I see a train and I know it's really a bowling ball. If you ask me what some cryptic thing really is, I’ll tell you, and I’ll be honest. You have a son and then you have a daughter who looks just like the female version of him. Oh and the city is still and stuck in (brain) fog and (real) fog. Famous Singer says that Famous Singer 2 says being alone in the city is harder than being alone in the country for a variety of reasons, but mainly one in particular. I have to agree with them.
First son has made a wax man in his own image. Now that it's done he doesn’t know what to do anymore. It’s perfect, Nordic, and booted. Since its done he can look at it as a perfect narcissistic pastime. He waits for his mother to notice it by finding empty eye tasks. She does and takes pictures. He can drop the wax man later and kill him to practice for his own drop-kill. Limp in his hand, he could crumple him into a ball for a proper Nordic Viking funeral. Let the slug run silver tracks over his wax form.
Looks like it’s gonna be a great day today. Six people across from me are split between black and white uniforms. With linked arms they make discrete colors into a stalking mechanism that watches you through the pitch window down the street. Only one is wearing the shirt that fits them just right. Slip yourself your own sedative or beauty which last night necessitated. It came to light in the form of a flash photo of a tiger lily and likewise enabled the circumstances which left a steel fire pit in the middle of 1st street. Fiddle with your satanic monogrammed bathset. Flip it over, once, twice, and run away as fast as you can.
No comments:
Post a Comment