Plathological

reverse decadence

I look a bit severe, research with only a final end in mind, or a half moon sliced straight down its center as out of our keenness for martial arts we have one half, the other finding out where the pigeons go when they’re not in my courtyard, watching them group as frantic, coughing engines around scattered clumps of seeds in town. You’re breaking bread, its pores overwhelming yours with steaming diameters. My truant bangs a bit severe, look out at you: no further questions just last hope rummage sale half way up my forehead, my moles starting to swell with proven ability to look professional at certain times and hello, I’ve come from an open and shut purse, then the sudden stopped as a way of walking. None of this is what I've been taught. Other than that, hey, I'm knocking on wood because there's no way in hell I'm telling you one ounce of what I'm thinking these days. Only: I think the peanut butter expired last week and I've become very insular, secretive, which is bad for the writing but I've never trusted you (the reader) less. Am sick of pouring my guts out and being stared at, getting nothing in return and not knowing where the information goes. I've been part of what has been called a too natural a process for too long. I hate the reader because he has no self control or true sense of completion, just letting it sit in him before it even sinks in.