pincushion
severity, a cloning of senses something tells me every good color is coming every good way, the small parts and long gorgeous rhythms that march life through un-cold, clean and sharp like new bread knives the way a voice happens, in spurts and breaths, moans things that mark the sign of gentle momentary madness washing over you. these things consume me: your breaths, sighs the way you move (i can see it) closer than anything else better than any other one thing and more.
2004-07-20 | 11:15 a.m.
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