Signing The Lampost

Off you gallop into the night, taken to the roads I’d offer to walk you out but in this condition I lack the capacity. The blisters on my hands beckon me to stop, but another slip from the loosening bandanna tells the story of a circular imposition. Spiking the morbid candor of misinterpretation sound slows to a muffle when a knock alarms a traditional decision to open the front door. Greeted, then seated this party has managed to flow well under way, in the midst of everything you failed to establish any undertone of the nights proceedings and not only was disappointment fresh off the squeeze an eagerness to please let your expectation grab the better of you. Destined not to relinquish the guilt from the milk spilled in the kitchen, you just need to be careful you’re not a catastrophe, yet. Given a few more wrong turns man and you’ll be down the gutter to be a bitter git, nippier than the other pritt-stick, huffing the post of a fixative; you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the top line of a news reel. This sort of nonsense has been normalized in the eyes of the bright that compromised when they said “the influence you have is far greater than the truth.”

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