The Season Ends

It always was fictitious – every sweet and sour instant – some perfumes cloud my vision: I smoke too much and get antsy. And I keep finding my hands need just a little extra company – the gravity is jumping back and forth like camera shutters: I can’t see or feel my stomach. Some perfumes cloud my vision: I drink too much to be witty and expect to still be funny in a certain, designed way. And everything hinges on the color of the lighting – I may as well start buying myself lotto tickets because the only difference is there I’d maybe win.

It always was fictitious and if I’d only listened, I’d have heard it cold as night but I was staring and forgot myself a turn.

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~ by perfectionatrix on January 1, 2015.

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