Pageninetynine. Document #8. The Hollowed Out Chest Of A Dead Horse. Zeneszám

I've seen you sitting in your bed, in your brown gown of dead flowers and in your room, in it's corners where spiders crawl, and a sour dream centipede slips under your mattress until it's time, oh, oh, gimme that back, I want my back, back. Oh your beauty, let it rot, let it rot, let it fucking rot. Lie down now... if you please darling, so I can do our world a service, dream, dream, and dream.

She looks right down through me, I can make out her shape. Her silhouettes false, legs crossed, eyes black, spilling on me