Be careful when your fingernails stop growing. I am in a sea of milk: cloudy supine like roots growing around a baby's bottle. I am in a sea of ink: depths unlike the shallow bathtub blooming with slit wrist flowers. But different somehow, when the serene twilight looks down on you like a father. When your hair curls around your cheeks like my desire. When I lose sight of my want, there will be the moving of the feast from far away to right here. My hands all atwinkle and stupid with fright shaking delightful. The fingernails stop growing: yes, just be careful. I want there to be this unfolding mystery getting darker and darker with every light we turn on. I want to drink of lactating nipples and draw upon soils tasteless and auburn. But I want to stare it down as it descends and let the knife slowly enter my heart. I want the blood to pump hard and sear metal pins through me with a driving rain. My knowledge of my own mortality. It comes quick. It bears a fuzzy little pill that shuts down my very function. It lets me off softly. To just drift, oh, just to drift out there with the tons of often forgotten aspirations. This life is funny when you pretend. Just pretend. Say nothing when you feel yourself slip away. Hold your tongue. Like a fine catch upon a crystal hasp. Hold it there writhing.
v v nice.
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