This is what you couldn't make of it
You don't know the phrase of smoke cuz it's a lazy flake I wrote
The flour's sour, oven wire, water tower, root beer float
Cost of dress is flush,
Furniture nourishment, ornament dross
The mark stirred in a spark knit cask full of wash
Desecrate the fastidious
I already have to feel like talking again. The first verse is over and the second one begins and again I felt like I could keep on talking to them, as if the basement wasn't cramped enough tonight, I was craving erosion, smelled the roses like cocaine in the medicine cabinet, and I just had to have another eighth to waste on it
You could slip away, even as I wait
Even as I wait, I have had my last days come across as a when question from beyond quitting the ouija. If I am a spirit (not a ghost anymore) why do I move through the future, frontier front lawn, with the fear of swamp spawn?
I won't be looking for another reason to keep feeling like I returned to the time I had the time to have had an opening in my head
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