It doesn't want to quit, these days.

Just sets in, gets its teeth in your neck, and wants to hurl you bodily off of cliffs with no regard for what's best. It's the deterioration of what's in your head when the bright lights have been turned off, and you can't see for shit. There is impetus, and there is excrement, and that's what I mean-- shit, shinola, it's all the same. You can't tell.

Around in a fucking circle, eating my head, and making up new shit when I jump over the old shit. Dizzy, dizzy self.

Screwtape, En Garde.

Or else, hormones.

<<agé chose>>

0 comments.notation.profile.DW.Quois.Lochinvar.smut.Tambourin.DiaryLand.DeadNazi