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
Monday, February 8, 2016
prized things weren’t coming on me
I left the room with hair,
sitting on a pile of gold, tell that story again.
cult of collection, others, and I’m no one’s muse.um of body
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