Haven with eyes closed.

If it was.
Washing dirt.
***** socks.
Tea.
Missing fish.
Say it without.
Pebbles, massacre.
******.
Because I...uh.
Stringy hair.
Forgettable.
Rocking back and forth.
Back and forth.
Dramatic but it fits.

Garrett Johnson.

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎,
𝙰 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚐; 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎.
𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗,
𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗.

𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛,
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚡, 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.
𝙾𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎, 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢.
𝙳𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚝.

𝙸 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗,
𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗.
𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑,
𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛,
𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.

𝙰 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎,
𝚁𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎.
𝙼𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗,
𝚁𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜.

𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍
𝙸 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎!

in a sense we're just a present tense expulsion
Refuting the rhythms, playing escapism
     Thr'out's weaving flawless textures
       Mapping exact, luminous essence of gold

Purity reign,
                        process.
                         ­           symbol.
                                              ­inferred.

--So it's like, no matter whom or what, we happen upon is a reference and different aspect of yrself, having its own experience. Trying to figure out certain levels of understanding, depending on their function of balance.

                  That's a mighty sweater
                    to be displaying on that pop-up ad.
              And it's a ****** shame, somethings
                      even have to be mentioned