this being we are, delights in all things, yes but is held breathless

yeah, the contract the social one, so long ago supposedly agreed to, we were born instead into. what

if i stub my fucking toe it’s their fault so say i, and who could argue? you almost

they really do know how to shove something up your ass like

so, come on then, brilliant one, see, i’ve been waiting for you with eyes

of the things that make me become better only music is unlike surgery

first fruits hardly a handful, the garden

better fucking eat it all up. time is getting drunk & may puke, be rude, before finally

every story, especially those promising finally to grant the square hat with tassels, is a load of shit. the god which

just start over not so much like anything was particularly

being drawn back unlike a bowstring but down and in as water finds the lowest

why is nothing i can do now. where it went. what that echo means, if anything