How Bad We Love This Type Of Life
( a boot becomes a phosphoric sentence )
Prompts humming in heads wanting to pick up another sweet rotation ...
Objects that carry their own questions. A set of marbles with no answer ... so we go back through everything that has ever made to find new associations.
The stone cold body better than any careful autopsy.
The kind of wow where a boot becomes a phosphoric sentence, carried like sprouting bulbs.
