the writers block entrances to stone vestibules life congeals and appeals to those despicable few creaky mattress, true, but we flew by burnt capitals
the grass's dew dried up at four o'clock in the morning we learnt the vastness of our own chaotic complexities it's impractical, doling out the pasts to our moping guests insight into their creature comforting me, smiling languidly
he saw those hooligans dance above his crumbling tombstone impregnated by the rain, headlight shone into impending gloom waiting, moaning, mourning in a deadlocked, deadweighted room we're inclined to drown in our own questions, in irreconcilable fate and a hateful frown, the tasteful waste adorning those latest to bloom