Surfeit after three frames.

I met one once that said I should write more. Tightly, tighten it up. Taught me that scribbling is not painting. Not art. Missed me when she came with shudders that shook me like a paint mixer. Took me buy surprise. Shaken I was horseshoe packed and chasing the ambulance, scurrying for her belongings; baited by her attempt. I only took her seriously. When I should have taken her to get help.

Skulking, no sun since summer. Pasty. Plodding along plotting the song, humming. Hand in hand, ducking cops. Copping. Blown out and dirty like a Korean haircut. Stop. Grab a drink and wake up sweaty in a puddle of piss. Plagiarizing progress while reinventing regression. Obsession, cringing. Shudder.

Tied in noose too late write and when I do I tackle verbal hills in desk chairs, swirling. Rotating whilst sitting, twirling for the sun rise. Busting my ass to break even and shattering only my will to continue. College Road and Pearly Pond seem so far off in the past.