August 9, 2017
I know of a day that stays in bed and runs around at night.
Damn fucker would steal a car and steer it into the bay if it could.
The pictures on the wall around this place are taped like messages from a kidnapper.
They say Shalo P suddenly disappeared somehow.
I can hear a humming through the walls and this place smells like an ashy furnace with its dancing swirls on the mottled surfaces - more messages. At the foot of the fax I found an old coin with lewd marks in its face. Penny for a thought.
I'm not aware if any creature so low-down could be up for transubstantiation. A tricky creature knows all forms of tricksey, if ya listen close to quiet ones rowing their little boats along the shore of their subterranean bog.
I'll leave some cookies here. I'll step on the poor little things to not spoil the artist with pomp or pristine.
I'm told that broken shapes ease even the foulest of moods.
I'm tempted to leave a fire within the wall to smoke out the saint, but I reckon that title is already held by another, elsewhere.
Somehow, I imagine a fire smoldering still from once when I pitched a chewed stogie into one of the whispering mouths along the hallway.
Perhaps it's just a small game of a door and her sisters.
In this match we connote a fractured window by the desk with perhaps just some poor lazy cousin made with feet. Grainy prisms mark where the glass was reinserted into the kicked-in pane.
I can't stay in this room too long. I'd just keep dancing here and bopping away the witching hour until it switches night for a midnight morn. That's the place, consequently - my home town.
The room just melts out of shape when I feel that manic panic tug at the socks.
There is unknown music somewhere in this place.