it hisses and burns moved to the center. finding the garden of conceptual bliss. my blood veins appear as roots in the soil-y mess. tho some times hot and boiling, there contents almost always cool to the touch. waiting and wanting to be spilled in your lust. Fingers and toes, arms and legs, eyeballs and tungs, and cool steel blades. all dreaming of pleasures just out of reach. its just flesh stretched across a frame, like a fresh clean white sheet.
now we move from the center to the outskirts of the heart, where honesty fails and deception starts.
