This bleak existence reeks of cisterns, it peeks it's leaky head above the gutters. Shuttered **** tight.
Death is the meaning of life.
Sylvia knew it best, resting under home, bone heavy and sleepless. That jar of hers; irksome, thirsts on monochrome bleakness; needless, overblown nerves. Smash it! Crush it! Whack it! Mush it! Classic glassy mess. Break it! Fix it. Tape it. Place it. Back now on your head.