All I wear to bed is my hat it fires up my head in the middle of the night.
It tells me:
Not wanted conclusive indecision
Not liked A psychopath with dementia ruling the world
Not adhered to wearing of a cycle helmet
Not dancing yet.
A grid of practical grey roadways to navigate, stone corridors are the freeways of iron juggernauts
there are numerous amounts of vehicles, vehicles, vehicles. I try to walk them
and am a stranger to myself.
Where do they go? Are they unsearchable?
You must travel in packs for safety of your sanity.
The roadside cops are gentle.
Everyday we will do something different. We will make loud noise, the sound will echo
through the stratosphere and will eventually touch the outreaches of the cosmic equator.
This is a place of warmth and judicious sunrises, where polar bears fear to tread, and
seldom seen words will fill your head.
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