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Prosafragment
The wound we write from forever is a well, bringing forth sweet-scented water, blood-encrusted slimy vile, or the desiccated crumbs
of crushed bone -- depending on the season. Searching for the sound only we can make, our shrieking, gurgling voices spew
the products of our sores into every well we see. Not deep enough. Not dark enough. Or simply not advanced enough. A sardonic
accumulation of riches, layer upon layer of decaying memories. But someone has to fertilize earth's crust before the sowing season.
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Texte Zitiertes Der Abstieg Prosafragment Magisterarbeit Jam-packed Hollow |
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| Diese Seite wurde zuletzt aktualisiert am: 10 April 2005 |