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, November 8, 2017
i leave myself out, overnight
call the cops, and shut up
i feel responsible for everything
and i'm afraid that when you told me
i was special, well. you didn't say it at all.
and now, i keep forgetting your name. but, i seek pronouns, in right.
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