ashes for cake in my hands. every surprise attempt to sugar you, the thought of, burnt up like the last embers
snuffed out, and good. it’s not that you didn’t want a proclamation, just not me as the town crier.
burn, baby, burn for not my forest.
i’ll meet you on the other side of the red skies, where i drink more bourbon and wear collared shirts as flat as i can go, and you’ve given up meat.
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