Maybe thats what is it. Maybe its one of those things you put on a big glass jar and forget about it. To use it you see. Detached. Collect the colours of the rainbow and finger it later. Stone cold. Cut out a part of you and let it swirl in the misty drunkenness of a past thats a present now.
Cut to see if there's actually anything to feel. The ink runs over, from these blue lined veins. Splatter. Drip. Stop.
Nothingness.
No comments:
Post a Comment