Tim Barrus: The Accumulation Of Small Accidents
All of it is incomprehensible. Lick it with your MotherFuckingTongue. Feel the wind upon your face. Wrecked by time. Disemboweled by tearing at the air. All the old working men. Dragging a prophet’s river of stars swollen with the raw places. The thickets darkening. The hermitage of snakes suspended without the suggestion of a sun.