At first I just shoved the letters into my filing cabinet, stuck down between Bull and Shit, papers loosely ruffling in the wind of a slamming drawer as the clasp snaps into place with the forgetful nature of my passions... but now it seems I take them out more and more, looking at the chickenscratch address - mine - with slowly squinting eyes. Loops and curls and blots of dark ink: the stuff of a man's position in the blues and greens, like trickling voices through the corridors of a damned insane person's mind, these words from ink like skin from waters of salt.
Comments 1
What the fuck does that mean?
Reply
Leave a comment