smooth crunch, dilapidated layers, crushed into, nuts and margarine, it seems those screams, in dreams are clarity, in reality, whispers of margins, so close, shaves and wavy days, charging in %’s in head rests, pieces left in indents of you, on the mattress. The fact is, subjective to the context of sparks, ignited by espionage, rubber gloves, the ****** scope, from afar, how did we cope before they put us together, in jars. The antithesis, of all we can be. Weak at the knees. Peanut butter and jelly, ready to eat.