sat outside earlier though, that was REALLY cold. felt the need for need.
felt the smoke pull out my lungs, felt the other oar of the love-boat beat
the shit out of me
it really is cold. we're all real kinds of cold, shaded portals of cold hands and feet
lips and tongue. we're all kinds of meat, cold in Lyfe's chiller.
boarding the ships we're used to boarding, bored of the lips we're used to...
doesn't matter, isn't anything, it doesn't matter, it isn't anything
awake for the sake of a roman legion, and in that sense, learning, growing.
yearning for the wildnerness, where every night is a stag night
you fucking idiot
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