goldencrimsonbrown

goldencrimsonbrown Webster's defines "This brilliantly planned and orchestrated crime" as:
Mike and I talk Art in unsophisticated terms, which means we really talk art. I'm rolling my own cigarettes, and it snows shreds of goldencrimson brown flakes that expand when you breathe them in. Such is my desire to fill me with whatever air can offer. Leslie calls looking but I can't do much, clean my glasses with Windex thinking that maybe it's just my eyes, the soft edges of objects defining themselves but weakly, in kiwi Frankenstein. Mary reads Donald Barthelme's The Dead Father–I wonder what she thinks of such a scattered, fragile thing? Were those nightmares when I was a kid really about the dumpster behind Lakeview Elementary? I went walking down there the other night, stoned, listening on headphones to a music made without instruments, and the house my father died in creeped me out so much I hurried. Two mannish silhouettes will follow you. Why do I never share with anyone whatever seems sacred to me? You're tailed by two poolish eyes, glinting off the
second-story window of the house my father died in. You're just right, Mary, because you too are restless inside, like really restless, and we share an gorgeous instability, raucous and ravening. Shaun Ryder raves on. You dreamed when you were a kid that you were a butterfly's man, and you moved volute wings via sexed pulleys via tracks.
Mine. Mine mine mine.



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