in deep: every day parting these clouds with cracked fingers
I come upon mind giving muscles a comb-over.
We don't speak, anymore. And my yellow fat, what's still
strung of that, is waved by an uncertain wind.
shepard fairey
ras
ras
ras
ras
ras
ras
ras
gustav dore
our boys
death and burial
wm
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I’ve Been Sinking
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