not that I've seen her before; I imagine she's wet, amorphous and cold; like an elusive aunt, we hear so much about, she may ultimately disappoint.
A Fiat. Model '88. Monument to my extinction. A ruin capable of grace. Only a trace of what's dead survives in such kaleidoscopes. The bright colours cause a headache. But this substrate of old ways stands at the edge, beyond commiseration. Rickety machines don' t burn Mondays to keep themselves warm they forget. The only… Continue reading Fiat. Model ’88.
One more day wasted in the display of how time managed to look good while running away from me and from everyone else living in the same delusion as me I crank up the AC I crank up the heat but I don't feel different I don't feel the need to rip away at my… Continue reading Proper reason to pity myself