We (I) have a proposition for you.
We (you) know how it tastes when they (I) look better, bitter like vinegar.
Follow creatures of a dirty psychological judgement that rot and decay. Consider now our (your) situation. A totally incompetent thinker, a plot that doesn’t quite fit. We (you) are a study. Come to this over a long, empty, period of time, can we still hear it’s calling? Our (your) only source of information is some tarted up dirty slut (me). Many weeks, months, years later this (your) world has become a lesson to be learnt.
We start to believe our own lies, a world of make-believe. Another image that rots and haunts. Excuse yourself from this scene. Tell me your dreams, (but don’t, not really).
Provide a stimulus and then under score with bullet holes, easy and iconic fatalism. The decline of such things is astounding. So many types of loss, a repetition of failures. Restless in their bones, a fear of independence from the reoccurring nightmare. Oh the horror. A toxic drug, a temperamental burly gap between love and light, lust and passion. Returned, turned and dissected view.