Another afternoon seethes at ten over the
already high speed limit. Wheels don't have
rhythm, they have the spins, more than likely
to lose their airs. I was certain and now I am
empty. Stop, metropolis, you've drunk more
than your fill of cheap wine and paint, then
thinner, then enlarged again. We won't pause,
and esteem still goes to the fastest out the gate,
timed from whenever the legitimate scorekeeper
started the tally. Sweetness calls, answer. The
wreath replaces the wraith. Stationary on the
from door rather than a failed ghost with re
vengeance on the ectoplasmic brain. I'm sure
if we were in paragraph form, there would be
shells to pay, but as it is, purgatory and another
Jonah are having whale intestine for dinner.
Roman Ryan 