Ye see the laconic psychotic wiz a guy asinine beast although he fancied hiself as something rather special, regrettably. I say regrettably as I think mibby this is where much of his trouble stemmed fae, ye ken?
Silent seething psychosis under a hollow maroon sky the turmoil of the wind the anguish of existing...
Simmering slow motion psychosis underneath a mantra summer hallucinations of sexual humilation torture cruelty...
He was a fervent, shrewd, narcicisstic man, prone to solitary brooding and evading queries...
His name was Al.
Where is that damn fucking notebook christ I've thoughts to record.
"You actually wrote this pish?" he queried incredulously.
He was that kind of fastiduous, sad, temperamental man. Like a distant ferris wheel on a winter's night.
Prone to intense narcicissm. (sic) ;) or ;(
Tee hee hee hee.
His name was damn fucking factory.
Momentum momentum momentum momentum...
A dumb throbbing botanical hard-on.
The electric dismay of a glimpsed summer.
She tittered morosely.
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