Urban lights shimmer off a tar pitch lake in tepid stripes:

to spoor the footsteps of vibrancy in diluted vacuity—

like inheriting a leprous gift horse

and clopping on putrid hooves

to Denny’s on free pancake day.

We are swindlers of the evening,

conniving in every sense of the word;

scamming gold bars from wallowing horizons,

hustling snake oil as if it could coerce the sunset

into perpetuating for myriads of inverted eternities.

My first fiction workshop was a surprisingly great experience.  All teh feedback.  If anybody else would also like to workshop or just read my story’s first draft, go ahead and send me a message (I think I’m addicted to workshopping now).

Today I saw a spider wrapping up some gross beetle and doing whatever it is spiders do once they have bugs trapped. I thought, “Good job spider. This is why I let some of your kind live.”

I’d like to visit a foreign metropolis and take you with. Out of trillions of people, you’d be the only one who mattered.

This sound machine has a heartbeat setting. Who sleeps to that, fucking serial killers?

thoseinandyglasshouses:

“THIS ONE’S CALLED HOT POTATO! LET ME SEE YOU FUCKING KILL SOMEONE!!”

Seriously, all the food in my house expired.

urineldiot:

his palms are sweaty, knees weak

arms spaghetti

There’s vomit on his spaghetti already,

mom’s spaghetti

He’s spaghetti, but on the surface he

looks calm and ready to drop spaghetti

but he keeps on forgetting what he

spaghetti

There’s that time right before the sun rises when the sprinklers go off—and you think to yourself, “Alright, most of tomorrow is going to be a nap.” if you’re still up.

I’d rather have you than blankets.