[ATTACH=CONFIG]752[/ATTACH]
Hospial Bomber - Heavy Heavy Low Low
Je Suis Ãme Solitaire
I wish I could feel so smitten; Feel a joy above an audible chuckle.
Customary Impurity
I climbed over the tree. I climbed over the fence to a cemetary. I mean our cemetary. High on PCP. Knuckle deep in what little left there is of me. Tears stream down my face, and I whimper on your grave; straddling your grave. The chill penetrates but stimulates and fills me. A train rolls passed and shakes the corpses in their caskets drowning out my hoarse and hungry howls.
Meat Hole
Is this real? Is this even real? No one above me; I am below me. Gravel and bone. Am I smiling? Have I grasped the situation? I put my hand on my neck in a position where I can feel my pulse on my fingers. A strange sense of sadness passes over me, starting from my head, to my toes. I start to grab at my chest, and I feel everything burst. My skin in hellfire; my body on Earth. Choking on sorrys for the people who made me.
We Incompetent Sperm
She changed the way I thought of awkward situations when I met the eyes of an arrid woman, mayonnaise hair, soaked in piss, gumming on the seat before her; she shifts her leg. With breath of cat food and eyes as sad as the punished infant, she leans in my direction. "I've been thinking about how things that always made sense before just kind of stopped altogether when I inherited my terrible condition. Now I can't stop thinking about sun and paper and other things a woman my age shouldn't be thinking about. And it makes my stomach rot." I guess what I'm trying to say is lose yourself as soon as possible, before you can't even tell if its something. And you get stuck, 'cause I'm stuck. And it doesn't feel good, but it doesn't feel bad either, and I can't do anything about it, but just sit here and fall apart.
Hospial Bomber - Heavy Heavy Low Low
Je Suis Ãme Solitaire
I wish I could feel so smitten; Feel a joy above an audible chuckle.
Customary Impurity
I climbed over the tree. I climbed over the fence to a cemetary. I mean our cemetary. High on PCP. Knuckle deep in what little left there is of me. Tears stream down my face, and I whimper on your grave; straddling your grave. The chill penetrates but stimulates and fills me. A train rolls passed and shakes the corpses in their caskets drowning out my hoarse and hungry howls.
Meat Hole
Is this real? Is this even real? No one above me; I am below me. Gravel and bone. Am I smiling? Have I grasped the situation? I put my hand on my neck in a position where I can feel my pulse on my fingers. A strange sense of sadness passes over me, starting from my head, to my toes. I start to grab at my chest, and I feel everything burst. My skin in hellfire; my body on Earth. Choking on sorrys for the people who made me.
We Incompetent Sperm
She changed the way I thought of awkward situations when I met the eyes of an arrid woman, mayonnaise hair, soaked in piss, gumming on the seat before her; she shifts her leg. With breath of cat food and eyes as sad as the punished infant, she leans in my direction. "I've been thinking about how things that always made sense before just kind of stopped altogether when I inherited my terrible condition. Now I can't stop thinking about sun and paper and other things a woman my age shouldn't be thinking about. And it makes my stomach rot." I guess what I'm trying to say is lose yourself as soon as possible, before you can't even tell if its something. And you get stuck, 'cause I'm stuck. And it doesn't feel good, but it doesn't feel bad either, and I can't do anything about it, but just sit here and fall apart.