The taste of stale cigarettes, comforting like a warm blanket over my asthmatic lungs. Chuckling, bouncing, wiggling into the sound of your discomfort. Bloodstains streak the sunset and you shudder sinuously, seemingly mistaken about sordid senseless semantics.
Fluids leak from your weakened orifices as you sigh with contempt. Of course you’re the fucking clown in charge of clowns. Of course, you sick bastard. What else would you be? A moron?
Meaning seeps and weeps from your pores and sores, as you well deserve.
