Even in dreams you are hidden under the most depressive rubble, Thriving, from your unapologetic antisocial cave. You smile, you chant your nonsense, You come to me within decay. Your hideout, golden fluff of cotton lightbulbs, Keeps wanting me to stay. That backdoor, dawn blue grassland, A trail without a name. What other itch you want to scratch now? What other pain you need to cane?
Conversation intervention and gentlemanliness on a brink of happenings.
