"We have to look sullen."
circular eyehole carved into the myth of time. a brief laugh, a hiccup of madness, reaching, and later a definition of language caught between the teeth of dead gods, the screech of steel, sliding swift, turning and tearing.
explosions of flesh, yellow table top, and a biker's journal about a knockout knuckle, all guaranteed.
rapid acceleration of uncertain flatterfuck. potato feed girl is not this. go on. she dances with her unwashed ratty hair and sees things I don't see, in the music, everywhere. I would ask her about it but I am afraid.
Perhaps this is a dreamflip into polaroid indigeneousness, perhaps not. Somewhere there is blue water.