Hey Deady
Wasting life while sleep I barely open my eyes but must carry something to somewhere to justify the running shortlived minutes I even steal while playing with times zones. GTC +7 or whatever is in my favor to rotate planet earth, gamble on oil prices, Tinder matches and dead people ashes storage boxes.
Breathe, early birds permit.
Dictionary didn’t quite but I still write as a virgin swell arriving to the Angolese coast, on some Portuguese colony, long long time gone by the chafing winds, drifting sands count not the years but count what feels.
Aritificial vanilla sensed candles from IKEA with capital letters so I won’t forget how spirituality hits the head on the nail when pretending takes place.
Some poems author lied about the secret of success and bought a package of Springles on never need to be washed magic bed sheets — so auto-correction by his neighbor-girl was never taken into consideration, nevertheless just wanted to add an edgy sex to the story before the COVID29 he’s going to have for breakfast, just to flavour algorithms with morning coffee.
And we write and we write, until when.
The collection of 400 stories, wow bravissimo, well done.
What have you practiced young son?
