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A window is still a window even when the glass has been removed in a fight for power as I watch the world fall apart I'd offer my hand but then I'd be

I'm no poor storyteller just a poverish soothsayer you can smack me into shape if you like or we could talk all night if jesus was born in a race of

Can you feel my legs begin to shake just as the aether that is under these sheets the space between this jealous air and my final attempt to sleep

I call action to the scene only a small fraction will make it to the screen this is but a contorted synapse of your perception this is exactly where

A toast to those who taste the glorious breath a sweet reminder stained on a lover's neck if it wasn't for this then I could hardly be the sadistic masochist

Children twisting through the trees unconscious and unguilty here we're alone a final confession as i ask for a high drive before i take this plunge