Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Trees, Wood, Pulp, Paper

I feel that irritation often: the one that bereaves you of weighty experiences, that constant poking from different sources, blooms from narratives, never ceases but fluctuates, drips from excited senses, devours focus, suffocates fascination, obsessive, rampant, is urged by drunkenness, pacified by sleep, quelled by death



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