Sunday, January 5, 2014


It might be that I'm akin to this sort of thing. But who decides that, save ourselves? Moon child, where is your mother and what have you done with your hair?

The kind of calm calamity, strength of the ocean. What is that thing that sits in your pocket? You're not too sure yourself.

White drips from the ceilings, running sticky, sickly down the walls. Daffodils in your hair, you sweet, sweet girl.

My city is burning from the borders, in. Catatonic, stellar, stand. Farus, farus, farus. What is this thing you call love, and where is it meant to land?

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