Hello.
there are interesting things out there, in the world. in here. it's morning and i'm writing and i'd like a cup of coffee. the daylight here is several steps removed from the sun. it's no trouble. i have something to tell you. i'd like to ask you to be quieter than i've been, though. is it morning? somewhere. please don't laugh. i'm not entirely sure what i'm doing here. there is a bit of trouble. this is just filler, anyways. i hope i'm pretty enough. methodics ^ The perfect crime is one that isn’t noticed. —ORSON WELLES The Watcher stands at the foot of the tree, long silent, droning in hot shadows, impatient in the leaves’ sweet rot, impatient for the dark itch to spread through the sapling’s veins, to spread from the roots up to the tip-top twigs, impatient—while from its nest deep in the branches a worm drops and stripes the cotton lace with a single dripping. Ants in handfuls disappear into the ground’s black mouth, reappearing as the spider relaxes from his guard on the fragile web. Now he sips from his honey / / / when u see a crow flying backwards slanting its wings in the_primitive_he_hwolf_s_teeth_r_iding_u_p Like a black-armored car, you know the shotgun’s loaded, ready to blow the tires of anything pink, flamboyant. No pink chandelier, pink limousine, pink underwear. Just flesh like a ripe plum that has fallen, split open and red. Stains everywhere.