(a Golden Shovel after Lana Del Ray) Listen. The only way to swim is to kiss. / There is no moving through, only towards.
All your pill bottles congregate, a small choir silent as rain. They were not the bridge we hoped. We never wanted eternity. Just another
It’s the one about the insomniac fortuneteller huffing down snowy streets, professing premonitions to the headless mannequins in the tombstone-storefronts. I’ve been roaming the