a project of skill-less and dead-author labor turned dead-text turned dead-reader, love
affair with space, some cloud to influx information without regard for human eyes. &poetry
Sunday, February 8, 2015
so speak in a room of bank $lates
probably say, something
upsetting anyways. Something
like: real-time, physical threat
sex dreams, about a week. And
they escalate, and
it makes me want to vomit. Always.
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