Designed in flurries, I’m thrown onto a soul and slipping on rain. Someone hears none of his wishes walk, what do I mean “none”? What do I mean “his”? I’m collecting your dust on a leaf as if you’re crawling into my own nothingness. We turn on the bottles, so I can’t escape you. You’re that sinful, beastly, an old form of story. Ah, I believe, therefore I grow the gold I split myself on.
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
Designed in flurries, I’m thrown onto a soul and slipping on rain. Someone hears none of his wishes walk, what do I mean “none”? What do I mean “his”? I’m collecting your dust on a leaf as if you’re crawling into my own nothingness. We turn on the bottles, so I can’t escape you. You’re that sinful, beastly, an old form of story. Ah, I believe, therefore I grow the gold I split myself on.
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