The unzipping and usurpation of rebellious alleles determines my chevron fate. Deconstructing Mondays always feels dishonest. Thursdays are gushing with primordial recklessness, but Mondays are like cooking dinner with coat hangers for spoons.
Youth rolls away. Youth falls off the craggy cliffside. Youth disappears into beige avenues of responsibility.
I collect human negligence in jugs. My eyes capsize in the rough seas of his assurance. Ghosts calculate better than I the distance between love and grief.
My code for my face door, my rose garden exit, the corridor or comfort, exposed by the greenest hackers. Alleles sniffing glue by the fire of my private civilization burning.
Miniature Moon 