Testo From The Loft

Look at me here. I must be dying. It's as though both kinds of consumption have slowed me. Still, it almost could be blissful here in this heat. Here in this heat. That child, of a morning. For no good reason screams. And just when the trains had ceased to bother me. Just let me lie oh god a few more moments. Look at them here. They're not even trying. Does every kind of cretin have to pretend that I'm breathing? Oh, the introductions. The making light of a heavy silence. And without any sharp cutlery. Onward pen. You ruinous. You wretched thing. I keep doing these drafts over and over again. Who would love me for my dying? Who would listen? At least I don't lie. Not for you, I wouldn't