
people sit in tight-knit circles while their lives creep by like high vicosity, barely moving. those seconds that twitch through dilusional minds and imagined normalcy. they sit in rooms like mine, surrounded by maggots and incense sticks; instead picturing gorgeous romances, prince charming on his shining, porcelain steed, when really his helmet is torn away to reveal marred and tortured features as his pretty pony bursts into flames. and he did not have artist's hands. he had rough hands. hands made for hitting, beating flesh will the bruises blossom beneath. |
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October 18, 2004
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yeeeahhh, i'd hit that...
with a truck.
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yeeeahhh, i'd hit that...
with a truck.
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