Some scientists argued about the severity of Richter while she was ripping her clothes of the distilled bottled body made in fuck you, and ran over right for trouble, getting across the fear of fear itself, what a cliche she sighed and rolled over the sand waves like a wallpaper of a dead body, overlooked by the artist sky, words had gone to look for justice elsewhere as she was breathing danger from both nostrils and mouth was finally shut to give silence a respectable desert which calls for freedom and tastes like nothing.
Morning draft written on the sand, by someone who almost lost her life, and began to live at once.
Signed below,
Broken glass, in the form of sand.
Not yours only.
Never yours.
Neither his.
Nor mine.
Grammer issues and the classroom of life didn’t fucking bother.
Passing Seagull murmured of Turkia or Cyprus, maybe it was Greece but a land of war. Surely not a party.
Richter lied over his apple cider liqueur: “I told you not to fight.”
Trembling over his dating app for storms.
