His Dark Sutra: Love and Death and Stuff
Love letters to you, yet I’m unaware whether you are become dried and hollow within the iridescent flare of the sun. Do you exist? Are you fucking alive?
The insect in my left hand limps lazily across the crescent lines that unfold my unwritten myth, like a tanned tarot embedded within my fucking palm. And the squeeze of a grip is all it takes to alter this peasant creatures’ destiny. I am the destroyer, mighty king of kings.
My spine arched forwards with the curving indentation of each bone protruding out of my back, forming a jagged linear gravesite.
Love and death collide within me today.
As I sit here typing on my iPhone, reaching for a cup of coffee that is in a cafe I have yet to fucking enter.
And the steely grip of last nights meal pierces my stomach, which I assuage with calcium pills thrown down the gulley of my fucking throat.
And really, I want someone to piss me off so much that I feel no remorse punching them.
Reader, I hope you are having a lovelier day.
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