So, today as yesterday.
So tomorrow is today.
A look inside inert arms that wrap up the pieces.
which tighten around my awkward tentacles.
I had strange dreams toxic powder, money and spy bugs.
I woke up at six in an intermittent light pink boudoir I like being in a story by William Gibson.
swallow drops for non-dormant reviving odors.
I'm not awake yet.
I am not prepared ever.
will be Sunday, and then Christmas and then another funeral and I'll always be here smiling from behind a crooked mirror.
Like an old movie from masturbation, to send in mind for times when the imagination is scarce.
Another endless new year to live next to me.
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