I don’t really read anything. I look for patterns. Colors speak to me. I beg 4 forgiveness. Cloaks. Daggers. Fast food. Eloquence. Reconciliation’s recompense 4 my demon wickedness. Wrong motel. The moon itself remains dangerous. I need some of those black garbage bags. The uneducated do not have toothpast like soldiers who carry the weight and the symmetry of the dead children they raped and murdered. What’s for fucking lunch.