blood on my hands

you, critical mass.

wandering streets the building walled with ancient limestone corner pattiserie luxury on-demand and neon pharmacies. the hills don't go up far enough too quick, the temptation not there to climb. descending from up till dawn, with your piece by peace. ocean breeze screaches fast-approaching in every direction. surf-n-turf smell and electron cardboard, streets cleaned up for this special occassion, cigarette buds still nestled between the linings of cement and gravel. every peasant bar leaves something more to be desired, alcoholic infusions, people not recognized, daylight savings.

whaat someone actually remembers? i've been working on putting new ones here , but it's a work in progress. i hope you get something out of it!