| Ironic pumpins stumble towards the pot, they are running from them, they are all that you should hate and all that i shall fight against. for they know all. |
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| past the grey city-lit sky and leaves that yesterday shined green where are maxx's eyes to be seen so close to mine why cant you always be.. angel eyes are not my own through the double-crossed prison bars (call me in the morning.) |
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| Back |
| To see the world in a grain of sand and a heavon in a wildflower hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour -my beloved William Blake |
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| To the matresses!!!! |
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