Cool spring time nights, storms rolling in, bedroom
window wide open with the medieval weaponry beside the bed in off-chance
miscreant tries to climb through window on a lark. Love too be cuddled up in
the bed with the breeze blowing the thrift store kufiyah curtain because I don’t
have real anything. Love too have an old soul in new-fangled world, moving slow
step-by-step deep dedication to walking every minute of life with full steep as
all the yakubian algorithms invisibly shoot around me like a google of laser
beams which work both as distraction like cat chasing red light on wall, as
well as a security system meant to chop my metaphysical sense of self into a
thousand useless pieces. Love too live in an age of self-doubt and loathing and
feeling guilty for the entirety of history as I sit on this pyramid scam called
western culture, but get those brief blasts of lovely serotonin that says to
worried mind, “shush now, feel that cool air blowing in, life is life and it
always will be, ‘til one day you are dead.”
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