Slanting sidewalk gaze. Trypophobic haze. Pock-marked asphalt sprawls. Skin crawls. Lately I've been thinking about looking before I leap. Pretentious intermittent stares that make me half a creep. And if a dream is nothing more than the reflected desires of the dreamer, my unconscious must be tired.
Didn’t matter much at least or not enough to specify. Those last few thoughts ain’t spoke for weeks, but for the record, you weren’t the start. Just a way point, an anchor dropped, floating like a corpse with the tide. They’ll find me in the reeds somewhere with time.
There ain't much behind these eyes, but you'll learn that in time. There ain't much left from now til death of sin and flesh for me to seek. In another life we never met, and maybe there you're happiest. And with bated breath, ain't found it yet. And I've kept all my receipts.
Ethyl flush in my cheeks. The first few songs on Astral Weeks. A broken record, years apart. Right twice a decade. A broken heart imploding like a star that's past its prime, an anti-matter void you'll fill in time. There ain't much behind these eyes, but you’ve learned that in time.
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