Sensing no rhythm in thought or logic, a slight elevation, rising up off the level of the ground. Face to face with the temperate cement and strapping a belt to hold down and back all free floating fabrics. Two hands down, shoulder width apart and the sweat beads like insanity ripe with red cordial and peanut crush.
Cooling sensation in the blood runs amok at the instant touch of the ground. A burning fever, a hotbed of baking crush that leaves the slightest of indentations in the palms.
Quick count to fifty, weeks away from being contiguous, and any chance of bleeding through is averted. Any longer and surely blisters would herald palms of a sebaceous applause.
Saturday, 28 January 2006 - 09:08
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» BTC 7: Mindwipes from Midnight
« Gathered here today between two telephone calls
