| mites_in_the_hair_of_a_loved_one | ||
| endless desire | if i stepped outside the door, i doubt i'd talk to myself across the street. mow your lawn, trim your life//make something beautiful with a bunch of weeds growing from your head. what a joke. the boat runs across the land to pick up the last stranded man who holds a pot of gold in his hand. his only wish is to form a band between the large boulders and the sand. you are nothing that you think you are and everything that smells of sour disposition. puke your boring, mundane lives into the gutter, so filth will lay with filth and we can start fresh in the sweetness of tomorrow. grossly cliche and temporary. | 040505 |