(axe a stencil)

My brain is an atomic clock.

Tick tick ticking away the hours i should be sleeping or seeing gwar or masturbating to a dirty polaroid too small to make out too successfully anyway so i am reduced, at last, to using my imagination or some fucking derivation thereof. coupling some learned experience. some perfect orgasms over porcelain faces and where i'd next like to see her long legs in a garter belt turned around all perfectly coy and inviting me to do what she knows i've wanted all night fucking long.

Down to what though?

Isn't that the fucking rub that could make a coward of me (or a greater man) any day i took enough time to sit and let my self think about it really.

Tick. tick. ticking.

And it's not the mortal coil that's terrifying really. i know that thing unwinds at will and that soon all of us are ash to ash spread out along the dust but i've no idea what the world has before that. no, that's not right. the world can be a petty issue this late in a night (actually, it only seems so exhausting because i've been under the weather all fucking day and inundating my cells with vitamins and extracts along with dayquil, a series of analgesics and a whole lot of buttons that boast their effervescent power like i would the last seat at the russian roullette table). i wonder where i turn. how i twist and half-life.


I don't really feel all that much like talking about this now. not when there's such a lovely schematic to enjoy.


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