Such debris when smoke settles. Boldened and crazed eyes. Tears beneath flesh. So cold out there. So warm in imagination. A pack in five hours; complete unsteadiness. To feel watched, consciousness going through hell, it’s only righteous, he did wrong. Life is over. No other concentration. Those blackened orisons, to covet what hates itself, to vanish, to return, totally devastated. Bronzed rails, colossal trains, falling into disgust. It was so ugly—it became beautiful. Some olden curse, into crevices and blues. Unto plangent seas, phrenic intolerance, the hope is it kills us. The degree is resurrection, fraught by forgetfulness, to seize what gives existence.
And it becomes difficult, lungs filled with blackdamp, inhaling one last cigar. The voice as it cello’d, the guitar as it ran, the piano as it melted. So fickle we were; so thrown to consumption; such kindred spirits.
Such abstruse density. So brilliant, so obtuse. Cleaving to some type of Neptune, talking a bunch of misconception, proud to have been foolish. It’s sheer amazement. To be justified. To believe nothing otherwise. And damn to hell those that disagree.
