A Blend

The apples are floating and the hyacinths are dying... The poor apples in red are being killed by ten thousand cruel bites and what do they do? They only let the alcohol flow in their veins until it sucks up half of their brain and smash the rest with nonsense... Then they start to whine... Bunch of dirty naggers they are... They beat the baby’s scream in the middle of the sweetest dreams and replace it with the scariest nightmare... I question them... They bullshit me... I stop, and stare...

"Too Much Rape On Earth!"

I read on the wall, then frame it inside the scene and freeze it in my mind.

I inhale, then exhale;


and again.