Being covered in skin, its like giving a jar a lid, like telling a piano it needs to play a song with the wood covering the keys. Sand is like gravel. Which is about how these words taste through my fingers. I can write them down but things linger, I'm sure you know how it is. My heart isn't in it and my mind is divided into parts that can't coincide- but they have to conjoin... it's a really fucked up cross road, you know, it's fucked up architecture AND having a broken gate. Not only is the dry wall caved in, but also the repair men are late. Late. Late.









