my inspiration seems to have choosen the life of a runaway. tired of not wanting to be touched, my explotations, and that perverted look in my eyes that say how much she fills me with taboo impulses that (i can’t fight- she doesn’t want to anymore) she once said that she was too underdeveloped to teach me anything and that i should allow her to mature. besides, she would say you only seek me out when you are drunk or high. i agreed, but i am an animal, i hunger, i want her and in those moments i can almost taste her
.she’d yell fuck nature, fight nature. defiance is art assimilation is death.
but what good is logic in the ears of some dumb beast that only knows instinct and sensation like the one inside that burns bright orange releasing thick black smoke choking the sky clouding the mind forcing the hand
but i guess the sun overslept this morning i guess farther time lost count and had to begin again because it is still dark here she’s gone leaving only a perfumed vapor trail and the memory of how she felt how it felt and the guilt of a dirty old man victim of his own ambitions