Apparently so. It beats doing real work at school. There's no real point to any of them. Enjoy.
Insomnia is,
cropcircles burned into wax,
and doubt with matches.
The curtains explode,
butterfly violent and fake,
mushroom clouds of wind.
We're only freezing,
in the world of centigrade,
here we like our shorts.
Moonlit projections,
venetian prison bars mime,
intermittent sleep.
Stories ran away,
wishing for a suburbia,
stored in a warehouse.
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