That blue that somehow speaks of haunted bones blinds me, the split blood drunk seething inside my skull flaying my last slip of sanity away. It is the native tongue of each day, graceless and remorseful, lonesome, hungry, and always undone. The belayed days of labor, the waiting for systemic cogs and gears to do their turn, the awful creeping sense that this trap will endure-- too much for my weak, trembling, stupid soul. No drug, no regard, no reserve, no angle. Just too many angels and a lack of gods. All this sky and no heaven.
abbiss:
huh?