i've almost erased everything of this portrait that once made a face. the landscape remains but the memories aren't the same and even without a voice I still hear a name. colors become mute and grey, night becomes boring when it's permanently day. so what is there really left to say; drawn down words are curtains on this place and the house lights burn so bright, eager to become flames.
i'm a vandal of a curator or the wrong end of a metaphor. i think "this is what solvent's are for" 'as I take deep breaths upon the floor. it's a win-win if you're trying to ignore the opening and closing of windows and doors. tell me how I wasn't supposed to even the score when i'm barely old enough to go to war?