junk trudged through emo city, purchase wiping blood from his face. blood dropped down from the kids in the skyscrapers above him who were slitting their wrists and hanging their arms outside the windows. nobody knew why they did this, medical people thought it had something to do with my chemical romance radio station.
mr elektric head was staring out the skylight at the stars. they blinked like angels eating glass. footsteps under lightbulbs. steepled fingers like a prayer devoured. “i didn’t think you were heathen like me,” marigold told roland. we are ever seeking ecstasy in the eyes of a tiger tornado.
move to trash. trash and junk wander down prophetic hallways. jars of flies buzzing on shelves. if you have happy dreams, that means you are going to die. the rain woke kimba up.
