Can a concoction really well an’ truly grab its own tongue an’ speak – within penetratingly right parables!? Seems to be the mistaken case of unkempt identity, indeed, he feels something settled sizeably between an’ behemothly standing staunch, up-smart an’ desirably improperly persuasive at that

Mad-cap, mad-hatter with winding, wound-up words for comatose an’ bedraggled, bed-ridden weapons which shall manage to placate an’ arise by righteous way of her early am. paralysis

It is in

His congenial eyes. Her surefire Galway girl demise – this lethargically enhanced albeit still fair fanciful life.

They appear to be drinking their writers tears whiskey, as beautifully unreliable as it may well let itself

Be. Impending ending, please… ease our geni-us on in

Via these whistling, whispering windows an’ their stolen gazes again. Romantically engaged to make malfunctioning sense of something. Never ever everything.


Sin, ink






Inside her mine-d