Slip it in, not so vague nor lost just slip it right in.
fig. a6) Laugh at the seduction of my thing, its evil is still as sweet.
The drawer with my business can be opened by angels. Flat and left folded, my shirt's in this drawer. Its purpose is worried. It's being more than the quiet that's settled in there. Drawer upon drawer and opened to this. I'll remember that boat once I've hauled out its line. I'm crossed. I feel as erratic as a cold winter rain. My eyes are frizzy and my skin is all hot from so much haywire, so much botched nerve speak. I'm alone. I'm sitting in a chair. I'm waiting at home. I'm alone in this room that's quiet and tall. The door's shut and the shelf is often bare. The general foam of this experience is standardized and it's limited by the nowhere presence of a convicted god, an angry god and someone else's god. None of whom are in here with me now. I'm battered and whipped and tossed at the straits. I am left of this shore. Alone with this cold and as wet as a cake, I am grand. I'm as a horny as a day fowl. If I could be plucked from this grit and these senseless old stones at my gather then I'd be gone far away. I'd be warm with the few. Turn around, turn around, I'd be gilt and not bare. I'd be hungry for lungs filled with life rather than rooms mired with people. This knife of my hands, this flesh of my wound, this cock of my bird, this ditch of my words, if I could be gathered then I would. I'd be taken alive and worried to work. I'll swim this whole length to be fat at the hands of your butter. I'll be wet before the days of your May. Instead sitting random and as hard as a chair. Limitless and alone I am diminished and hassled with the sharp through these awful ears. Buried in the sweat of your cheek with the tongue from my terrible lies, my cancer, and the cause of my eyes. I am struggle with the burning fingers of a saintless prayer.