We were distantly disappointed and watching the sun go down over its own state of awareness. We’ve achieved a sense of edge of ReAsoN delirium. We’ve even

Stood ourselves inside of mightily minds – “and wished for a whisper surplus to utter requirement. And if we really were to’ve gift wrapped antagonisation again then they’ll

Know what and WHO to do(!!)” It’s a cliff hanger… a hanging (basketCASE) CANvas that CAN CALL ITSELF TO ARMS… and spell its own source of aforesaid meticulously riotous, plEASE, awareness. They’ve walked inside of Manhattan-at-Night and watched the ‘site-of-L!FE’ make sense of its utter SELF.

We were cold inside of An Orange Warning MasterPEACE AND BORDERING ON RED bewilder, actually, and boring ourselves silly with these self-prepared poetry-stories ((GOING ON INSIDE OF OUR HEADS)) because we can — “last the mother effing distance anyway and as AFOREMENTIONED AS HUMANLY imagined… .” What

Is she ever gonna do, though, with the bones of herself when the rain soaked people EVENTually prepare ((themselves for)) another reign of utter mother effing bEwIldeR(?) “Will she maybe (really) be — about as black blue and truthFULLY beautiful AS AFORESAID humanly (imagined)?”

“When our tragedies are NOT our badge… .” Not. A. Mother. Fucking. Chance.