Imagine for a moment there was only one choice after the cold light of morning opened both of your eyes right where you lay. Imagine you could only stay. Would we be happy?

And then there were footsteps echoing around the whitewashed hall; high-heeled mother of god full of Aderrall spacing the day as professionals will with points for time and pens for points and black eyes like lasers.

Giddy still from our silver, stoned orgasm making point to think of anything else, we feel nothing else but the temple of change. Keep hands from in between your legs.

I have a song for you but I break when I sing it.

Patchy sidewalks keep our arms locked holly and ivy past the first sunset and last chance to fall without utter destruction.

I see you now not knowing how I’ve seen you before but it’s true.

The headphones instruct her mouth to move avec moi, avec moi. Keep true and a new direction will grant you passage to a sunny cottage with fresh cheese and a rusty-colored bicycle. Keep true to the new words. Professionals will.

In the dream he is smaller. In my dreams he is much, much smaller.

I think in fiction it is my tranquilizer it gives me the buffer against your harder observations. The half-formed reality love; harder to swallow but we must have more! We must have more! Pointing where you lay silver tongued and hungry! Clouding and the number nine avec moi!

Presently so intent on revenge. In all, living gracefully.