Being real is a bore.
Nothing is real."
— Solipsist porn
Cold beer to your lips. Take a sip. Be in the stupor of drought wrought in a passion of blaze. Tranquil and bashing with red rosy cheeks highlighting a crescent punctuation of white.
Foaming heads crisp with bite, liquor with a fine silhouette, mugging the crisp chance of fuck knows what. Your garbage to me. Thrashing thoughts of waves that crash on the bluffs of my mind. Honestly you’re nothing. Nothing because my honesty hides in the compactors of my darkest crevices. To which my veins linger for the touch of that final thrust.
I’m a pessimist because I loved and lost. My choice. Choices mine. The only flame that I can claim with real-estate is my loneliness. Only thing that’s real, I throw away. Love isn’t a choice. What’s left is yours.