Their minds, they were a web of connections, interventions, complex affection and imperfection,
A Texan, possibly, I mean he could be one, young, with a gun, hating everyone, oh how unstrung! How had it begun? This disaffection of a disconnection between one and anyone.
And still, nobody's won.
She walks, head down, unbound from the ground, feeling like she's drowned in a profound, newfound way.
Then she play, distrait, but most definitely not prey, for she can disobey, display the disarray of the delayed day.
Two minds, switching in and out, out and in, a genuine feeling of sin on her skin, can you even begin to imagine?
She'll take aspirin, or something of that sort, 'cause apparently it should be a last resort, this export of her distorted, contorted fort. She keeps it hidden, a forbidden subsidence, good riddance, an unwritten ribbon of an imperial affliction.
Oh so smitten, is this crucifixion.
