Living in my time is a coloured theme. Mescaline in a field seems such a joy like the young boys eating mushrooms by the school swimming pool, while i'd sit oblivious at home.
There they flound, asymmetric lines, pubesent aisles of quickened pulse. There goes the loosened thought, the ripening thunder, boys your galloping on.
Hello burrowed self You be the boy of sheltered crawl, alone to wonder, saved for the day, to one day dream of afternoons in different perceptions.
Now we're just shadows of the men we wanted to be. Our young bodies drifting on ether, catching winds of summer bombs, forgetting the triumph we made of it all.
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