When my lips become maroon perhaps my other limbs will stand a chance, the objective being erosion. The way things stand. Perhaps I have become prone. After all.
We feed on her majestic mist trails. Humbling confessions of weariness and ineptitude. Someone grins in our general direction, prophesying an ambiguous Edinburgh. Slinking into sunsets. Feeding alien sunsets into historical simulations, the objective being to increase the probability of inaccuracy. Wintry juice is maroon by default and my limbs are conveyed by horrific magnetic influences, as a matter of course. "You actually wrote this pish?" he queries, incredulous, disdainful. "Aye," I murmur. My gestures, demeanor and tone of voice convey insurmountable lethargy. (Fade out to overcast morning, ominous synthesizer tones).
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