cLOUDDEAD - Apt. A (1)

dose one: empty things... she’s calling, she’s calling me tonight, from just inside my lips and i’ll write her. betterment of the world through wish, wish i’d fall off, growing distant. i’ll write her, and pull my face fresh from the waxy palms it’s kept soft in. why?: there’s something to the fading of faith. my whole childhood was the broken guitar and my sister’s silly yellow blanket. now i carry slender and sexy curved sledge hammers to break the bricks i bought. i should have never went to college, but took a trip to costa rica to cut rainforests to choke myself. dose one: making up miss bobafetet as i go along, why?: and rejecting the truths that i’ve been served. dose one: fool in... besides, tuition for my countenance pressed fine in reverse block, style print, a product of cave drawings gone automated with these loafers and a check book, twisted tightly into, know, a stiletto. dose one and why?: do you know how many times i’ve thought about writing about the pap