general-lostbear

She crowned him with a ribbon made from the footsteps of a song, the tongue of a maybe, the parabola of insignificance. goddess. maybe. He tells her he’ll tear her hand to shreds and in a matter of instances the spear of the line that composed his arm pierced the circle of her hand. Embrace in the two dimensions is a matter of take and give, killed and kill. He tries to rip the ribbon off and finds that wrapped his line in he realizes he may never be inside himself again. The ribbon squeezes. She runs off with her polygon of a hand screaming as perspective warps and tears her chest into offerings for the sky, folds tossed wildly

 The girl at the front desk shoves a clipboard across at me, she even smiles. “Please fill out your medical information, and then take a seat in the waiting area. We’ll have you in in a few minutes!” The entire waiting area is vacant, so I stay at the counter. I start scratching down answers that have been pounded into my brain over a course of forty years. “It’s not very busy here…” Her fingers drill into a keyboard for a few minutes, before she smiles. “Yeah, the cost of the operation tends to narrow down the clientele.” She types for a few minutes more. “But ‘s okay. We get

I can treat you, and I can teach you and I can be everything that is good and beautiful and my lips will be the gateway to heaven, if you just sacrifice your money, if you just drop your material world we could be Epicureans, that roof top our garden and the breeze of the night licking at our skin under cold, cold, good stars, but they'll never be as virtuous as me, as us, as now. no. we could be human, creatures curled up in the false protection of one another, falsify me, lend me that which you own lend me that which brings you everything you know and we could be human for a night, truly, completely, animals her tongue against my throa

The sky is brighter. Brighter. No burst of color yet, just an ugly, encasing grayness of morning. Bright as night and unpleasant as every damn star in the sky. Eyes are grey like the sky the big damn canvas that sees everything like the eyes that are its color that it sees. All I know is all I can say. That I hope that terrible orb of fiendish, crass, disgusting colors keeps its damn head underneath the blankets of the hills. I hope it suffocates there, with its blankets over its head, slowly burning up all the oxygen left with it until it glows dimmer, dimmer, and then no more. If it remains dark, I stay in the hell of this night