He was very personable selling me a t-shirt on a ping pong table while a match transpired. In a dark, musty bottoms loft, the smelly art kids, fucked on puckr, compare navels, toss each other about on a dirty mattress and compete their well-trained eccentricities. He was definitely unimpressed, tho smelly too. He jerked off their richsuburban E! notions of oddballoutsider iconoclast.
Buried under the hiss, the skeletons, cicada hulls, rotting leaves, the melodies don't want to be found. Takes effort. Like a super choice American-made performance automobile, the floorboards cluttered knee-high with ATM receipts, Taco Bell bags, shoes, old birthday cards, textbooks and fruit peels.
A thing of sprained beauty - an examination of flaws.
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