Moths, dancing amongst silhouetted creases; shadows fluttering between light, an elaborate flitter between sentiment and action. A display past imperfect faces, grammar, substances. A thousand moths, and one.
Naked and true, disappointment, and disappointment, smiling holding hands.
Little angels in rows, saintly statistics aligned in tune with their chorus, a new born. An appointment, arch in shape; ever drifting descent, toward my head.
Great Fall into hole; scratching, fading a silhouette.
A moth flies.
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My life behind a pint glass: Defying the gag reflex and embracing Internet prostitution.
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