Fictitiously Vicious

//play//


i could write a book, an autobiography of a crook, cabin by a brook, one too many a good look. make the characters brave and the antagonist better, wrap it all up with an equation to forget her.

we give ourselves a narrative a fictitiously vicious comparative, relentless at heart and snotty by nature. sand over the roughest spots and hide every blemish if every element of expression embodied the creative would there be such a distance between ourselves and our ideals that no make believe bridge could breach it?

its a filthy world to begin with, not a favourite of settings, most definitely conducive to the habit of forgetting. leaving behind the worst parts and hoping for the best, drawing up conclusions and refuting the rest.

but i'd write about the peaceful moments, asleep on her chest, by the water or mountains, lets leave in the best. sculpt it like castles in fantasy novels and summarize the bible holy christ girl you'd make jesus grovel.
would you write about the characters that ran across a desert for you? would the desert be the living room and the coffee table a mountain? embellish everything, sweet tea cup you fountain.

sunsets so brite turn midnights to mornings, turn every second of my life into a morning, and every inch of my visual field into blankets. and every feeling in my heart into room service and every tear in my eye into bacon bits.
every day the same again, more soft light eyes more summer skin, more countless hours inside someone else, more infinite moments in a complete lack of self. expectations abound in leu of sound, like silent needs, fictitiously vicious silent needs