Perhaps it is me. The city looks like anger and dispair. Freaks look me in the eye and faggots avoid me. The air smells like cigarette smoke, farts, and unrequited threesomes. There is no sense of hope, just a vague suggestion of the lack of salvation.
Denver will save me, unlike any other city. There is no room for regret. Love, taste, divinity, these are my modus, I have yet to find my operandi.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment