There is a call on line one.
The dying smell of cigarette smoke clinging to human flesh fills rooms with denial.
I can’t seem to quiet my mind from flitting.
8-bit memories
wooden desks, plastic enamel
dysfunctional plexus surrounding these family values
Programmable system of operating.
Writing in ink reminds me of the third floor
I just wanted to be with friends
Teeth filled with pocket protectors
Sifted recollections of feeling drunk inside
Ignore frame detect errors
Post-it note flipbooks had a numbing quality
It’s not as bad as it first seemed.
I’m on stage and you’re staring at your friends
I’m in the audience and you’re staring at the stage
You’re staring at a television, I’m hypnotized by LCD’s
I’m still not able to predict the future
