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
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
they take their heat from the sun, and when it deserts them, they die
eating each other
beneath our feet
at home we have only
black moths, they thrive
on dark and cold, feed on
butterflies,
I'm afraid,
beautiful things are fragile
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