« The knife belongs to me, » the hyena told me as I left R.E.M., alongside the remainders of my un-mathematical spirituality.

Daytime nightmares perform as the books do, or as days to for the schizoid; bleeding together, like aphrodisiac nightmares.

To start the day off, a black coffee pity party.

I am so fucking lifeless, worthless, and fruitless.

As such, a vegetable pleasure garden in the winter.

Three seeds are planted here, yet the hand pruners refuse to tenderly attend to their germination.

Due to such overgrowth, the knife belongs to me.