Graveyards and goalposts, drifting under hazy lights on the darkest path... lonelier than an empty schoolyard, tetherball chains dangle headless chiming and chinking their sultry rendition of "for whom the bell tolls", grossed out and pissed off, I shoulda stayed home, where there's all those wonderful parts to things in drawers and boxes stacking tall, a warm old place, the perfect atmosphere for eating fleshy faces... of coarse masturbation has fewer commitments, maybe this isn't a tragedy after all, if we added a laugh track to the gorey and embarrassing parts, it might just make the son come out. Sonny sonny sonny day. I mostly miss him. Missed him two times, nuthouse disasters unexplained, I never stopped missing out, I just notice it now that everything's gone to muck.
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