Is no matter how much you try to be good and impeccable in that Casteneda way, it's always a matter of hours and minutes missed
No matter how good you are, the confluence of remarked shit is going to overtop the real deal of little smile cumulating in the lee of shadows
You'll count the cuntery of spines and swords cutting large and forget the small flowers of little happenstance
Mainly because they are diesel engine down with iron pipes riveted by chip and fish eating salt and vinegar of the earth
So, lawn middle class type, you bend under the thrown up mores of ideas less fucked and warm
And forget it's ok to say that this, the fire in grate, and steam black certainty is good enough
Fuck your stirring of the glass
