I cried to the sun for the heat with to build a black summer but O it would not come. Am I to this? This to am I?
I slept all die and awoke to portraits of Schiele.
To genuflect is not a crime. I slept all die and awoke to portraits of Schiele.
The night was yellow envy in the heart of the dog of the sea. She sang so melodic. Melodic.
As my legs shook, I
shimmer o darkness it is no difficult request. I was all akindo
like trampled Samantha in that night her ears were bright red for no other reason than that she was dead. I was only eleven, and I took all of her money.
I can remember young little me riding donkeys along the beach as the night fell like robes off my naked shoulders.
So only thirty pages in I caress my scalp, turn my hands into a miniature blanket for my face and lean forward. So much to transpire and o the dawn awakes out and in.