quilt of bullshit.

verily, i say unto you: cast thou glance upon all my friends, for their clothes are dirty but their hands are clean

and i am proud of them.


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right now my mind feels like a gallon of neapolitan ice cream melting together in the sun

and does any one besides me remember when we were living in that hellhole off of wealthy,

then when will refvem walked into the living room with the tub of thoroughly knife-gouged margarine, jokingly commenting that it was a metaphor for his soul, with infinity in his eyes?

will refvem, lead us in prayer to apollo, and thereafter.


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some times i´m afraid again. paranoid with that dick-grabbing, sleep-inducing fear that my parents were always right all along, or maybe that i´m spitting in the face of a sacred code.


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look at how they shake those sirens, ambulances after midnight.

too many times i confuse mediocre canvas of my room´s rectangular window pane with obscure dreams, shrouded in nothingness.


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