That is the hum of a human train,

coucou

from this balcony, the last

open before witching hours

and the swollen panes of face flesh that

rise to an occasion

any, all

coucou

the disease of balloon dreaming

dear

I once dreamed of something more domestic than this, not instead of this, but that somehow this would give way to that soft thing organically if only one moved the pieces, but I don't think so. I tried before, in my little girl way of big dreams and big loves and it all ended up in the abyss afforded to pipe dreaming. (this ain't no chess game and you ain't got no right)

my mouth hurts and I dream of violence

coucou