there are never really any angels in god’s company, it really just pretends them

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

of course it is not about you. you have to know this, like baby birds know worms come with mother’s return,

bring me things to break myself upon till

if ever someone is my dearest ear who hears my truth as theirs

first fruits hardly a handful, the garden

was all stupid. you weren’t that entertaining. i find it all only sad now, that

something you need makes you its bitch, yes even as it isn’t coming, no when love stands you up & all the more sweet

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

no means no. no response means no. (everyone knows maybe means nothing

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