with a fork nailed to the neck (and 3 more regretful kilos), my huge mouth full of words that i can not spit (and I am free to ignore it), full of bites (like what – blame the poor guy who stole my plate?!), with the color of old, flown dust (where is the lady, the powerful cherry?), inconsistent, disproportionate in the cacophony (before, i bled every month; now it bleeds me), i do hope for the end of the day

but if the future does not pass fast, enthusiasm and hope – they will not pass either (next monday i’ll sit at some point to see if i forget this stagnation)


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