Smooth or rough, buff and facet the tacit muffling ruse. Flashforward through days of grays and yellow lines painted on endless miles of oil-splattered asphalt - whose fault?
Fingerprints sidling across shiny keypad, egad, my hosiery bunching as I'm munching. Crumbs and seconds falling, mind walling numbers from bumbling summers of love and wonders, no dawdling.
No place in space to erase the weathered faces of farces and their aces. Starched pockets frame rocketing fingers expertly directing mouse point, adorned by grimey rime of hurried greasy victuals, ictal eyes blind to wise fractal skies and surprised gray hairs wondering at the dearth of nature's breath, when death is coming, coming.
Take that asset and shove it.
1 year ago
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