oh, how very kind of her! how just, how fair! how true. but, why shouldn’t she reach for the purple opium plant with a razorblade in one hand and her pills in the other, and root it from it’s humble mound? it will surely dismiss all frustrated pent-up anxieties; no hypocrisy in pleasure! it’s all fair up in heaven after all: the master has every right to abuse the slaves. i wonder now, how she could survive if she were all alone, with nobody to ladle her poisoned addictions upon. of course i’ll lap up your breed. another sneering role model with which i must mould myself. which part should i stich in now? and where do i come from? spontaneous internal midnight conversations, etched upon my mental chalkboard. rubbed and dusty, they lie here now, but with similar coherency to soft chocolate arrows. a land unfamiliar to you; you’ve probably visited many a time, but were always too tired to bank. celldaoir scrapbook: where dreams are stuffed on brown paper bags and cotton sacks. they lie in wait, for some retired postal worker to deliver the ‘h’, covering their eyes with mispronounced (and mislaid) tongues. rest in rags, my dear.
