typing away at the writer; like a machine gun lock and loaded and ready to fire ink splattering like blood and words shot out like the fusillade of the ****** hands tied behind my back and the fold has blinded my eyes with a cigarette lit and my senses of unflappability prevails again no last words no last requests just barrels of this machine pointed at my head and my heart in all itβs glory like a man taking a **** and it could be all taken away by the trigger just as quickly as the turds flushing down the river of cowardice gunslingers but if you glint towards the charlatan of brutes like a dried up white elk, then youβll know what a poltroon really is
however, the mastery of the world are eager to know how much they can squeeze out of you like blood from a rock before they stick a skewer into your vitals and roast the ebullience off of your pneuma like a burnt kabob and thatβs why my gutter fingers must rip sheet after sheet from this monkey box like the slightly torn pages from the loose hands of madman, and it all comes down en masse like four walls meeting in corners like the miraculous cry from the sadist like 7 billion in existence and which one am I? the cat burglar, the dream alchemist, the televangelist, the czar, the grand master of underlying, the time traveler, the creator of happiness or just another standing in front of the execution line for one last time because we never know how many seasons we have left until the end