I ask you to define death, and you tell me that death is a __pantheon of__ ___nightmares__ shifting into alignment right before the collapse.
When I look into your ___past__ I can see how this question came with a gravity that weighs you down at the __root__ - I would apologize, but instead I _light a cigarette___ and that's something you hate about me, but you know it makes sense anyways.
Tell me about this room, the ___wallpaper__, the way the answer tastes like __lemon candy__ rolling around across your tongue. This conversation is __over__, still, I __reluctantly ask you to define time.
Your eyes shut slow, or do they? What is slow? What is time?- I ask again. You take my hand and say time is __nothing__ __and__ _everything___.
Suddeniy, I realize just how __fatigued__ you are with yourself.
away i die with my head underwater and my body on dry land i am reborn into the dark in a shimmering blue pool the stars scream at me flash a beacon they scream and scream a bellowing wail the banshee saturn’s rings an endless wind
the angel hunter plucks my wings i return to life to him with a belly full of confusion
loose threads 