the blinds are tusseling for position
its almost like a gimmick the way the brillance is mimicked
tripping faithfully in the back woods of maine.
stained brain waves
crusted over with dried out peices of sweet talking
her smell is my calogne
I wash bad dreams out with hints of knowledge
talking about throwing the money into the fernace to stay warm
boring chores of reliving stories
every moment is a couple seconds reborn
but of course it shouldent mean much
more so than not
define the world.