Woorden: David Thomas Broughton. Ever Rotating Sky.

:
tapping and tisking in the corner, slowly cooking in the softness, to have glued my hand in place, a fire burns in my guts and my face screws up in delight...the violation of your body, the pieces they fall into the holes, flakes of skin in my mouth, petals trodden into the carpet. like, the ever-rotating sky, this sentiment carries no weight...to have felt the depths of life, and the drowning shallows of death, the storm of the half-sleep the half-sleeping storm, out of the blackness of incompletion into the politics of inconsequence.