Challenge: stop making sense
it’s always darkest before the dawn of the dead
dark windows shine on nights spent dreaming his sudden severed strings the fates strum barn stomp polka riffs fucking bongos on our ribs baby so at the red light I missed Amy with a blade thirsty for my heart I took it with me to the un- country for old women while the young kept climbing into hell in an endless series of papier mache hand baskets saying a sign we need a sign (sigh) I’ll take a shot of bourbon right to the brain stem where it’s darkest at the same old same old end I said with an empty parens (or maybe one of those) I don't know dot dot dot thingees amen I meant
