Welcome fresh unmolded mind. If you decided to pick up this book it probably means you’re lonely, young, and too naive to know what’s good for you. If that’s the case, then you’re already in a great position to be starting your whirlwind romance!

Who would not salvage the dust for the poor,
or whatever the change may be for the well-versed men in dollars?
So be it, the Roman giants or Russian oligarchs whom search for vast heaps of green in corporate monasteries,
chime in, fairing equity, for their Wallstreet yachts, oligarch suits, and whatever their norm might be.

A thousand pictures away,
Drive together up hot rust
About we play luscious TV
You trudging on garden bed
Lust please rip him into meat.

The weeping lady in the ivory dress, within the high pitch fever dream,
screams at the kettle with bare feet, while wandering the grasslands.
The blonde man, strolling on top of graves, where the caskets hide, greets her.
He hands her a golden plate of vegetables and offers to peel her skin.

The spring is humble in the prairies⁠ — she does not boast, nor does she shine. Instead offering a gentle, cold wind. Air for the metallic, uneasy blossoms to grow within. Every so often⁠ from the garden ground⁠ will sprout — the landed lighthouse! A simple vessel⁠ springing up from the soil⁠ — like a lost, wandering watercraft. She does not truly know her place, nor does she care.

Each day, we inch closer towards the supermassive black hole That gives us a stability, and will one day inevitably consume us.

“When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.” —Stars, “Your Ex-Lover is Dead”