Sunday, October 25, 2009
Hugs for Belle and no one else..
I sit on an imaginary throne of cloy. Growing contiguous with the ceiling. Composed of trickery, smoke and your insipid 'heart'. Seated so tall now, set upon tier after tier of grotesque displays, I behold the prosaic boy's mistake and although my throne is quite unfathomable in height, the depth is only relative to the rhythmical filth sloshing to and fro within the confines of your skull.