prettylittle 84 - 87
He divulges depreciative, orating calmly. He wears a yellow flavor. Outside, it is dark and he’s drinking, and his provisions thrust outward. Hold his boiling snow. Alcohol is for the inward, thus he left the outside concentrated, failing.
He was busy in a timeward spiral, his head, I think. Soaked in her decoction of pauses. There’s not much one can do. I’d cough up a day creative, of lime-flowers, and tone with a drum onward. It might mean defectuosity; more aggressive I find, alas.
We drank tea and felt great imperfection, and I remember being; & getting drunker and drunker, a bell was spoken, and then I left. Delectation, that pleasure and delight. For you might do, driving a myth of a home, demiurgic. To slowly manipulate the girlfriend away, and a hiding away in some time. The creation of the universe with her fingers would be such a forest of unknowing.
About Chicago and New York and London and the maker of the world: gradually becoming more violent again, just as the leopard strikes at vegetarianism, being our moments, our years I can taste away, cutting. I’m starving from that first demiurgic love on my lips… how can this flesh crown you?
