https://twitter.com/lukewilliamsxxx/status/1419810615007358976?s=20

It is the sun that drapes the summer. The one we are walking down a path of lush green that will look differently soon enough as you will amble through it shoeing some of the leaves and snow away. How is it that we sexualize the very thing that taunts us juxtaposed between the monster’s wrath and the Dragon’s knuckles if he had nothing of such that rebuke with claws we seem to understand as a species. We are the fistfucked thumbscrews that hold back the River Styx we are our own version of brawn in the summer of our hero’s wounds. Whose hole is a sacrifice of swallowing the disbelief of tongues. To show such stereotyped soliloquy opening and closing not unlike a parking lot, and everyone in the business knows who is for sale — this means everyone — has his parking place assigned to an ownership that once you have allowed yourself to be pushed out onto that ledge, the one we have all jumped from either the going down or going to the inside of the fantasy tower of escape where they will cuff you and cut you while Genet laughs and they take you away to Dirt Bike Town, and I am here to simply send you a message that makes it clear, someone loves you in that Dirt Bike Town goes round and round. A musical sound even if the two of you have not met, and the Gods Send You Romantic Measures of an imposed pain. Your tits in shame. Your cock in maim. Where everything is all the same. You become the tamed. A James Joyce jukebox of fellow travelers to another summer’s Irish finale. The Message Snows it can take a lifetimes times ten. Our days are numbered. What end. What silent accord will slip the risk of sexuality by a winding, psychedelic neck surrendering to Rome the shivering murder on a snow day of frigid emergencies. Time is suspended. The good. The bad. The dark preamble of a squeezing into it all the soft kisses of your famished second selves who have never for a moment stopped all the traveling of nightclub sway. What is he doing undoing to us now. Oh, that. The spilling of Your Wounds are the scabs of autumn’s blood and autumn is always an everyone dies. Entrusted with the stumbling on your knees at the Bridge of Sighs. Life is short on luck and deep goodbyes.