Footstep, footstep on the dissolving floor. Where is my home? Tangled beneath the tangible jungles of ambiance. “Boo,” says the ghost, “who,” asks the lonely girl on the swing who’s hair is caged by the ashes of distraught demons. Weird. Or rather, wired by corpses. The horses occupy the trolls who’s faces imitate the lost souls frozen in dysfunctional places. This writing…? Pointless. Who’s diary does this account for? What fist is South Pawed? These, those, my foes, I suppose. Close the book.
~That Dude Eddie~
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Love and Peace.