smells obscure, but not unpleasant, quite new to the taste, taste of burning pheasant with the feathers stripped away as i set them astray, chewing off the layers of urban decay to which my stomach rumbles with much unease suddenly filling my viscera with acid, as i bend down on my knees moral dilemmas enter my mind, as i drink its blood like wine i rectify my needs, with the hunger divine my tears salt the flesh beneath my palette thinking that it suffered much, as i bashed it with a malet

Dirty. Unwashed. Crumpled and unfolded. She said the words that I was dreading to hear. With a staccato of words fired between us, each of them not lasting even a second within our short term memories (Or in our redundant conversations for that matter). Only two of them seem to stand out from the rest. 'You're dirty' just as she said them, with a casual lilt of her tongue, turning away from me. i was struck frozen at that moment, without a thoughtful retort. The already droplet saturated air seemed to condense around me then, and it just hovered there; engulfing me, entirely... purifying me. I noticed how the drops moved so harmoniously in the air. It was beautifully synchronized. With a passing wind, the drops swirled collectively in a clockwise direction, without one drop moving too fast, or too slow. The floating configuration of nature was to the exact, not approximate. Perfectly calculated by no one in particular, it just was. Each one of these droplets reflected a single ray of light, brightening the room with the haziest most weary white. My mother headed out the door only a few seconds ago, but I was caught up in a moment of thought. Moments like these happened often. Daydreaming, as one would like to call it. To cause the mind, to slip through cracks of time, to avoid reality and what was true. I was starting to feel like a deer in the headlights. Realization hits me. Suddenly placed in a bright room, with no knowledge of how I got there, or what I was even doing, then bang! today's earlier events bombard me and I felt I needed to owe my mother an apology. Disentangling myself, from my self-centered self, I headed towards her way. On the way I tried to shift my vision in another angle, to one that was higher above me. To one who could assess the situation fairly with an unbiased view. No, not god. I lost my faith ages ago. What I needed to do now was say 'sorry' to her without a single emotional tag attached. What I needed to do was deny the rage I built up over the years, and simply replace myself with another new forgiving 'not-me' me. I felt dirty doing this but I knew I was better off. I stood quietly beside my mother's open door. She was inside, she knew I was there looking at her, but she did not dare look at me. "What d'you want?" the words spewed out angrily from the back of her head, and I thought I could burn holes through it, if I focused hard enough. I swallowed, before I said "I'm sorry mum" in a quiet submissive voice, that made me feel like disintegrating crap down a toilet bowl. But I knew that's how she liked her apologies...

my fleshy vessel of thought, punctured by the twisted delicacy so sweet, more than a month before the festive day. tis was a punishment for my gluttonous behaviour. was i kinder and more controlled person i would have shared the sweets, and saved myself the scrape on my tongue. leaving the distinct taste of my own blood.

Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort,.... lol

...fake, disorderly girl. through motion of attempted speech, she tries to communicate. but fails. she smiles as if it's automated into her system. inside she growls bitter remarks. a tempered breath scathing within the hollow of her throat, demanding release. instead she winces, not knowing why she does, she is not in any sort of physical pain. though she politely coughs. vigorous enough to get whatever it was, out of her system. yet quiet enough to not draw attention to herself. her hands start moving away from her mouth, and they begin to tremor as she pulls them away. she feels a tingling sensation within the inside of her arm. slightly irritable and ticklish. Though its an itch she cannot scratch. Once more she moves her limbs in a conscious notion. she is aware of every action she is doing. but yet she has no control over it. realizing that the person across from her is looking at her patiently, expecting her to respond. she tries to find her voice, but can't. for a split second she panics, realizing that her mouth is moving, and her voice is projecting through, without her command. they carry off without her. in an almost astral projectile moment, she disconnects from herself, and sees herself from a elevated view just a metre above her head. she sees... a fake, disorderly girl.

stuffing is warm, it can be removed, and enjoyed separately. though the feelin is forlorn. the stuffing does not exist. instead we are presented with a hollow cavity. a space with what used to contain a working system. organic and orderly. with no reason for starting, and no reason for ending. just a moment in time. soon to fade into nothingness. i see outside my eyes, i see past it, instead i see through an invisible prism, and i see what they see of me. a girl. of no concern.

head nodding, bouncers rocking i can't behave myself - deadmau5. sweet tune

a wall i see, right in front of me of greyish its to be as the feeling is grey, for that it is to stay a transition between the night and day between the memories that play but these fingertips have memories too but why must the blind man play blue? and the child play white? that is because there is no day or night grey matter in the mind cannot be touched grey colour in nature i don't see so much so why has this wall of come to stay in my field of view, undefined way

a wall i see, right in front of me of greyish its to be as the feeling is grey, for that it is to stay a transition between dark and light between black and white a thinking man's delight, its never too bright ambiguous interpretation, grey can never cause a fight thats why the wall is grey protects the night from day from the collision of colours from the boutiques and the parlours the colour of submissiveness is grey thats why you don't see it everyday every fallen leaf is a fallen man for behind the walls, is a hidden the colour grey illuminates only when other colours suffocate *scrapy draft shit

in the deepest tunnel you can find there struggles a man submerged in sublime there is no light, there is only green he goes to part where he can't be seen and when you see him you will see that he is neither like you or me the body is there, but the soul is gone walking and talking, you don't belong he's mind is a tunnel that can't be seen only he can find it, and its lined with green green of death, of not of life putrid, purulent pond scum, rusty knife