patterns realize her. all sober devils and soiled napkins. the feast has no meat. no knives. only bare bones. empty flesh. and the treachery of progress. as it romances isolation.
the broken colors. voices chase the high. brief fits of clarity spoil long winters of chaos.
the journey. gnawing at my mind. the destination lost. like melting ice.
time was counting, but not for us. we were orphans. all circles and squares. in a world without dimension.
close to the boundary. far from the edge. words wither like flower petals ripped from the stem.
no growth. only stale gardens. and time. ripe with stagnant pendulums.
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