I may be ugly or plain as sin
but that's my fucking aim.

I find humanity much more refreshing, now that I smile sky-wide and help young-blood blacks. Drops of sun are shining upon my ass and I find life much more refreshing (I also like to press the F5 in front of your face while you kiss your boyfriend; it makes for a beautiful suburban dystopia). I make little sense, but these words don't stop the rush of my blood. Not until the veins of summer have deceased and porn becomes a tourist attraction once and once and once again. Not until I stop to think my love for you reflects from my new-found love toward me.

"There's not a single drop of mudblood for you," said the witch in the rye. She took off in a blast with her cruiser-jet Lamborghini–or was it Ferrari, sedated horselike and addicted to chaos. I admire her looks but averse her index for what these lips may cook. It's not like I'm after lust for love, for the +1 for my breast-chest hair (God I wish they would grow already). I just don't spend time bothered with time timeless one after another for those clothes of grand lego, molded for taste buds, culture homogenesis in a sense. I like to search for spirit, inner beauty with just words to give: Google "ugly sin" which I stand for and tell me, am I alone in a world made of matrix-dotted LCD? Cache that one for me, okay? My braindrive can't handle the torrents of disparity and Emotions 2008.divx. I need a hardware switch, plus performance ratio. I need time; I need new eyes, some new software. Spring is coming, my most needed update.

Now bugger off, Winter Snow. You weren't much of a friend, not even a terrific show.

Also my shoes are a total disaster
but it is always better to smile than to
find a method of getting angry faster.


A tribute solely to humanity and perhaps some to mother Earth herself, because she is such a wonderfully complex organism, and because no person can withstand her moments at the privy, no question about it. Extra notes: The gamut of love is a multidimensional abstract understanding of human relations... and, just in case, for us simpletons it is quite unexplainable and often a heart at the center underneath our sleek chalk bones of a pale chest. Ugly sin–some kind of a version of truth. Words don't happen, people do. You is just a generality, as in context, there is no You.