words in gangs, mobs, mostly themselves all in all save for the different intentions I mean (they mean). Crammed in notes, books and bubbles like blind bullets or crayon flowers. A flower doesn't know it charmed a girl not yet put through the vice that flattens all her delight and a bullet not sorry or sad about the brains that rob a family of a loving father and bloody the walls of an alley shaped room with bloody brains.
the writer:
mops a brow with a dirty hand, by thicker curtains. in from the swan's favourite sun, sparkling up like a sulpher lolipop fizzing its sparks and what can only be described as a beautiful day in east london, on a jaunt with the prince of my past and selfless hunts for anothers pleasure. Ridley Road market that morning..
I love you so much you I cannot say now but I know what you know what I'm like. It won't be long.