What penniless fool is to succumb to love and treason to the dead. I want to give it another try, I want to find another wine. Something to get lost in and something to bleed for. I hope there’s worth in the archaic. Keeping up, is simply beyond comparison: not what I do.
Set the ridge. Sit the barrier-line. Nothing is too wholesome to wash away from it. And all I do is get lost in the wash. Something a neat-freak would juxtapose.
I suppose I’m not all that fine and dandy like I thought or tried to convince myself.
I’m just tracing the lines and almost off and ended in every picture I’ve painted.
Moving on.
petrichor - archive 