A yell as thick as vomit tears itself loose from the insides of my throat. I watch it go circling, spinning through the air, its contrails drifting in wafts. God, I’m sick of this continual humiliation. God, I need a break. God, I want to break my vocal chords in half to watch them steam gut-string words in this pre-December fog.
Grandiloquent. For ever panting and for ever young.
Email:
archrisman@gmail.com
J’aime votre art. C’est votre existence et la fin du mien.
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