i think. i think the trees are thinking. i think the tre es a R e thinking
OCTOBER ?
they say death. and they wear it. and they ware it.
and.
it's yellow talking on the gnarled limpets breathing from their bruising trunks. suckling my apt pupils discharging lovely decay in my small pocket of teeth and thoughts and veins. they,re an ****** of crunching golden mort i walk through its delicious corpse and i take her. i take here. this is: