let's micromanage beauty.
you take the batting eyes. i'll take the pursed lips.
no shirt no shoes is all the service you could want.
and who takes the heart?
well, you break it, you buy it. and i expect payment in solemn crocodile-skin briefcases. crisp green bills with the faces of iconic slave owners.
this has been said before. but worth enough to say again.
it's about that time. now, who's with me?
it becomes impossible.
melting. throwing up coffee. the fragrance which lets me know there's more work. oh, then? then? there's more work. doesn't make me free.
is that a euphemism too? those poetic nazis.... [we're following the leader/ following the leader]
eyes sagging. fields upon fields. that's what i mean. frankly.
so, take out your spiral-bound paper.... note the four degrees of separation between vanity and decision between life and death. the decision won't be yours, and stop being so dramatic.
it was never going to come to that, anyways, now was it? just calm down. you've fabricated what a mere shadow could do [if the shadow charged you down darkened corridors]. suddenly fight-or-flight has materialized as a bolt towards safety... the 'fuck fuck fuck' that plays on repeat in your head as you're trying to get that door to shut and the lock to turn.
what happens is, one moment your narcissism is staring right back at you from the bathroom mirror, an
your gallery is truly something special, there's this certain feeling to it. I don't know exactly how to describe it, but it's a cross between nostalgia, loneliness, innocence, and bliss. Most importantly it all feels genuine.