Missing a scent of a feeling
That only drugs can give.
I'm baking in my own mind at 450 degrees. This lack of expression can't get any more flat. I feel remorse and graffiti running along walls. Like an old paint cracking into a vertical desert from lack of moisture. The connection between reaction and action are becoming broken and undone like an old rope snapping under weight. A hum of a motor I know by eyes and ears come closer as I fear I'll lose my privacy.
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