COLDER THAN GODS CUNT

The stink of piss. Jungle perfume. A C with a perfect circle center to house Adam.

In the decay of this city, I have felt the nasal repression of held back tears. Noir. Not as romantic as I once dreamed.

I threw down the smoke bomb, thinking I was concealed by the smoke—but I was the smoke. I was the nebulae of derision. I cannot create. I can only destroy.

The coldness of this room. The coldness of my hands. The coldness of my heart.

I write in sentence fractures. Because I think in sentence fractures. I used to think I was the broken heart, but now I realize that I am the cracks.

Slither. Merchant of the infantile. Regress = Egress?

Fucking pretentious garbage. I just wanna fuck. Not to cum. I just wanna fuck to feel warm. It’s so fucking cold here.