034.

lowborn. black chipped grit. how far into the chlorine can i get, before it all goes? i keep begging. the label is blurry. take a break from the feed. write for yourself. words are all made up, so where’s the fault in aligning them in whichever ways and whims you wish. upon. grace. there is no standard of perfection, is there. it’s an expression. a gesture, of oneself. which couldn’t be preconceived. my hunger is the ordained. are you? what you eat? running dry, running rampant, hindsight is a throat that makes itself noticeable. i’m coming to the high end of the climax, of the octave, of this, the song that downpours.