The days take on the hue of infinity, and yet
We are all hurtling at 67,000 miles an hour towards
A rusted bed and a rusted bedpan.
We are all hurtling at 67,000 miles an hour towards
A rusted bed and a rusted bedpan.
The incorrigible sticky loneliness makes me cry, sometimes,
With mirth;
Life is hilarious in its cruelties, and I'm
With mirth;
Life is hilarious in its cruelties, and I'm
Unsure if the cavernous stretching
Of the days makes me want to explode with
Infinite happiness, or infinite gloom.
...
She
Is in cold love with everything, and I
Am in love with her coldness.
Of the days makes me want to explode with
Infinite happiness, or infinite gloom.
...
She
Is in cold love with everything, and I
Am in love with her coldness.
4 comments:
Wind chill alert,
Be careful.
The chill just doesn't go away, does it.
You don't like to know!
But I do.
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