the demon-possessed can spit out nails, jagged pieces of glass, father amorth tells
i walk around spitting match-sticks
i am desperate. i buy lottery tickets. i would suck cock for a break.
i don't believe the things i find myself doing, and this time around, they don't even feel entertaining or worth writing about
life isn't a competition in brinksmanship. the palette doesn't have to be these colours of endless rainswept brutalist urban decay. there's no need to be shivering in these poisonous states
i should have taken photos or you won't believe me
it's just more of the same thing over and over again, a little bit more robbed of its magic, a little less beautiful
recursively
