Pi

days feed on eachother as if starvation has hit, slowly tugging and knawing at the

factors we partake in. There was neither of two hands, no gentle sound to keep the mind in order; a lost trace of events. A small emergent pit, that waits to develop and worries too often. A single doubt, that one must ask. Yet a betrayal in the question
That, wholly prevents sanity.

Reviews

[...]

. incredibly brutal ...
. but immensely beautiful poetry ...

[Nobody.]

this one hurts.