I'm purple balloons on holiday, teal televisions pronounce my ears. I try on new hats, give people slippery glances, truncate my walls and bow low for sinister seals and check my phone for an edgewise center...
As all things fall apart, I feel the gut feeling falling into place. A treasure I'm holding turns to dust at every point that I open my eyes. Why do all things poor give severe monotony? All things rich embrace the sarcophagi they have earned, pouring fuel into their graves so as to hallucinate once more before they die. I'm giving myself out precisely, dearly, and dreadfully, but manners of all transcendence into fortune direct downw