Mourning Would.

What sort of stream of consciousness, hopelessly lost and broken curative empire can I begin to build, and dance to the beat of the deafening silence, bleeding out from negligence, in itself it’s own capital offense, a violence that has so many pointe-class ballerinas bleeding through our hand-me-down silk slippers, falling, left behind, as gifted, gilt, gutter-trash. And all we all need is the love from someone who won’t molest the innocence of the safety and wholeness of home.