A collection of consciousness with a side of mashed potatoes
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Given up on the journal. That misplaced piece of typography. A crushed cigarrette butt lying upright next to a burning one. Smoke in the eye. Untight glasses peering onto clicking keys. Our lovemaking. From minimal instinct to severe intensity. Seers inside. Gone with a committment, yet freedom breeds moments of untranslated honesty.