Film has had its way with me, I am decidely a writer and the pictures all took me for a fool.
Now with only words left, the lens becomes again its tool. Youre a tool, disposable asset that does detest a mess that to be frank is where there is only best, and the only place where your soul of wicked demenour may discover its rest.
I am. She said. I am. She wept.
Im.mad at the context of your destruction, and I am tired of this long stretch of a land where a president is all set and the daily needs of every human being is barely met.
I loved a trash for too long, I digged deep in that slime and it only smiled a smell and did waft away. The bin a vessel, a vessel is me, a vessel ive sacrified for much less that its meant to be.
My mother wont scold me, she never did, she only loved me as he did.
Cuss your flavour and epitomize your demetia at the poison you keep distributing for a taste of sweet lifes` fleeting'
I am tired of permission, no one has yet heard my scream. And if you wonder what I dream, rather look away supreme.