Apr 7, 2020
myst/*
can’t believe the rain. when it falls a certain way, panes resemble~ 1. true flesh, free from previously wicked ways. 2. diction split between familiar figments and new paths forged from blind love for all we wished to believe in, yet couldn’t, due to our navigation around, below and within prescribed nomenclature. 3. this sense of being, buried within itself, a shelter, shambolic in its refusal to bow to the weight of its own insignificance. ----------------------------------------------------- where our body will lie post-this is yet to be determined into existence. what we wait for our fate to be is only known by the reflections we cast off, too real to acknowledge as true.
