Cracks. Doom. WTF Ever.

Editorial burn.

I shall beg the alms.

Affection. Lips. Provoked.

Your candles have gone out.

So you are telling us.

With images of us in high fucking gear, and as many fatal visions as you have.

Don’t call me on the phone.

Your juxtapositions traveling to view after view, ninth Muse.

Tell me have you gone there.

In but a moment.

And your flash is an ironic one.

I suggest you use it.

Abuse it.

It will be the master of you now.