crumbling bone fragments litter,
while everything gets drenched,
white air bubbles of soap are comfort,
getting fat by design now.
is it a guitar pulse,
or some kind of electronic beep,
still don't have a robot best friend,
which is more or less a catastrophe.
light beacons spill our dreams,
at night when they are invisible,
everyone is going insane,
and the sheep know something we don't.
welcome to Jouranal (journal)
this is my blog. to just look at my painting etc then head over to my website and disregard this mess.
please note that the events described in this journal are highly fictionalised.
