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the slow periods.

half the time havoc is unkempt and gnarly, but in those other times, we find the need to make some fundamental differences in who the person we are can be… we can begin to suffer through the incredible feeling of being displaced by our emotions into another world altogether… removing our mind from our senses effectively… some suffer delusions and others still become illusions, walking and talking and waking nightmares from their own abyss… the stiff drinks help, but imply the need to decide which trail to follow first… capturing the attempt to disperse… the need for a nurse will come later in reverse, and we save the ideas of some mad visions only as we grow older… the decay shakes a leg, and these moments seem lost in the essence of fairness… social reenactments of some prophet’s dreams… the cherry ride through a vacant street… even though the dark seems empty, we fight the urge to riot words that bait us… in the spaces betwixt is where this restless debt is owed, and we are our only foes… our meat is not our own, but just a home for us to treat with wealth… ill health reveals our woes to the world like a scream for mad pity… the self-indulgent city that one has become… the menace lies outside the walls… waiting… fires burn the ashes of evidence in the wake of our mishaps with laws and functions… to stay in line or walk away?… difficult defined those one-word wayward saints… actions… to make the day how we want it… only the jerk-offs hear nonsense as their dead nazi incestors make up their minds for them… message spent…

Thanks, khet.