01-14-2018, 09:54 PM
As such he found no joy in life.
He had trouble wrenching the memory out of his lungs.
He was a hothead then. Now his feet grew cold: his anger and fear knew each other, and gave birth to hate.
There lived a bunny inside of him, which leapt from face to face. Whether it was in his chest or in his pelvis, he could not tell.
What he knew about oblivion went necessarily unrequited.
His most hated word was awesome, the memory had sapped all meaning out of it.
So savage were his nails, that they spared no one's sight.
It was a hallucination he would never forget: his garden withering in the oppressive heat.
He seemed more forgetful than weak. He proved a brilliant actor.
Doom was no well-liked term either, but at least it had no substitute.
He cherished them for their weakness, and their tenderness, and their straightforwardness; for their small breasts, and their smooth skins, and their soft muscles.
At least he didn't leave them bloody after every encounter.
It is not the moon, I tell you. / It is these flowers / lighting the yard.
She's cute.
How could there be an after to something that hasn't happened yet? How could he reap misery from humiliations yet sown?
All he knew about immortality, he'd found on the internet.
And an icy voice replied to him. Whether it was God or insomnia, he could not tell.
He had trouble wrenching the memory out of his lungs.
He was a hothead then. Now his feet grew cold: his anger and fear knew each other, and gave birth to hate.
There lived a bunny inside of him, which leapt from face to face. Whether it was in his chest or in his pelvis, he could not tell.
What he knew about oblivion went necessarily unrequited.
His most hated word was awesome, the memory had sapped all meaning out of it.
So savage were his nails, that they spared no one's sight.
It was a hallucination he would never forget: his garden withering in the oppressive heat.
He seemed more forgetful than weak. He proved a brilliant actor.
Doom was no well-liked term either, but at least it had no substitute.
He cherished them for their weakness, and their tenderness, and their straightforwardness; for their small breasts, and their smooth skins, and their soft muscles.
At least he didn't leave them bloody after every encounter.
It is not the moon, I tell you. / It is these flowers / lighting the yard.
She's cute.
How could there be an after to something that hasn't happened yet? How could he reap misery from humiliations yet sown?
All he knew about immortality, he'd found on the internet.
And an icy voice replied to him. Whether it was God or insomnia, he could not tell.