moodest mice are fat

what a holy night the birds are still awake and i am going to bed

sing me to sleep

bored of lots
bored of thoughts
bored by being boring and boringly boring boring people with boredom and being boring
in cold weather it is all of a sudden that i miss every where, every thing and every body
i am so romantic as of now but always late for it
my niceness is not naivety but most of the times i see it as

a toke
BEST

the pack wolves are out and i am willing to let them gnaw on my brittle bones as i listen to soul music and drip absinthe into my mouth. the clock handles turn as if time till time runs out is never coming, its own sweet time with seconds and second-servings of silence. i am partly responsible for your damaged goods but i am never sorry anymore and i wish only for blankets to keep you warm. i am at the line that separates both oceans and i give equal access to both to fill my lungs with saltwater. you are all dead.

ah

wish for the devils to die
burn in the corner
the circle goes 180 degrees
to the other end it seems all the same
the escape is worthless as you see
another one stretching its truncheon
hopeless
but you need the golden gun to save your fucking soul like james fucking bond

-

cutting off all ties with the formals and the crux of all points are bent and flawed in some way or another so what is the point or is the point so inspirational and seemingly shallowly repeated by laymen who are two-handedly backward whereas the simply backward promote the degradation of this view and is it relative to which ivory tower you stare from or not. all i know is that i enjoy it. all of it.