Nosebleeds on Sunday morning, but that’s the last thing on your mind. Which way to the afters? All the streets look the same. Everything is West. Existential terror encroaches. Your bones turn to plastic and your mind drifts off to a perpetually collapsing landscape of false memories. Buried alive; the worst way to go. Yet it’s calming in a way, you always seem to claw your way out of the K-hole.
skibidisigma
