it's not a medication but a bellowing of the organs of your rhythmics.
i don't believe in the dead, but these are premonitions. that's right. i said fucking phantoms. haunting the inner workings of anticipation, the eyes, the smile.
notebook pages lines the roof of my mouth, waiting to be tasted. the things i ingest are aimed at your skin. i want to be heard in your footsteps. i want to feel you coming. i want to feel you coming.
bass heavy, like the ocean. a lung so deep, we're talking creatures. inhabitants.
the waiting at transit length is benign. a clairvoyant mentioned charmed existence, but i told her i was just a vagabond. my coating of arms, a penciled diagram on the blue lines. my reputation, a line in legendary sand.
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