March hung a week in the sky a shiny chip of hope only crushed shells in my pocket I need to see the future file the edges of my common sentences, try to collect oxygen for the absent sky. I... Continue Reading →
March hung a week in the sky a shiny chip of hope only crushed shells in my pocket I need to see the future file the edges of my common sentences, try to collect oxygen for the absent sky. I... Continue Reading →
written under my nighttime eyelids, saints hold hands, die over again