Apr. 6th, 2014

Look at me. Pretending to be vain so well that lines blur. The World and its Mona Lisa smile. The World and its bloody sentimentality.

Now what, I ask. And there is a list of things on tongue tip jostling in line, things waiting to be uttered- ghosts of possibility, things I so easily defer in favor of the immediate. In favor of gratification or mortification.

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