Three quarters on the pants and the height takes a dive. Smoky mirrors play no part, raw red eyeballs even less so.
For the angles of perception, glancing at the stock starts a short shock. Ever by the increasing hours of the day, a lessening of the top plane. From the riffs to the hooks, its growth is measured by the end of the locks. Where the flowering reality is that it suffers not to tower but to cower in the wake of a shadow.
Back and forth across the floor, as though the burn in the carpet creates a ditch and groove to feature ankles at the level of other people's feet.
Wednesday, 4 October 2006 - 19:07
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