what happened to it? pen with which he wrote the note ink of his last words

every drum in the world pales to the bang the crash the beat of her

isolated Sunday bicycle rides tend to compel long winded speeche… character dialogues from stories i… and plenty of l’esprit d’escalier i speak with the dead

it is not often that i think of peace or of the soldier i believe war is inevitable

i would never get my bar back so i went back waiting outside the entrance for m… to stop myself

i thought that god was playing hide and go seek with me but it was just

misgivings of tide familiar qualm of the sea home where we are lost

we can wear the morning air like a jacket and move deep into those bright

walking down Rundberg a gentleman of the homeless junkie… approaches me from ahead “hey mayne ima be hones wischu

at odds with the sky I have rid myself of every feather and with my beak i have chewed off… of my wings if i am to see my dreams die

if the fairy spreads her thighs for the goblins finger the happy ending never comes even if she does

I cannot be cast under any moon, upon any soul. If not for her,

clear skies are the feathers with which the lesser gods tickle their twats and dicks sunshine is the gleam of a puckered asshole

let me brave myself for another da… for i am convinced that out there… worthy of all the pangs in the pil… let me have the strength to bear t… this face