Lycrap

I'm beginning to suspect that there were murderers there, but the shift in perspective isn't all that profound, one person can find killing impossible to imagine and another person doesn't lose any sleep over it. Destroy a person's life that has nothing to do with you, and well if your life ever gets destroyed it wouldn't be them, it would be a random act that has nothing to do with your sadism. Even better, at least you did it in for somebody else if anything horrible ever happens to you, you got your hits in. Pretty easy, see, when you make justification. If the worst that can happen to you is to feel kind of bad, well that aint no kinda deterrent.
Are you writing from the heart, are you writing from the heart?
All the time you say what there would be to say but you are a chicken. You can heave what it is that you want to heave but until down came the suffrage nobody cared all that much.
the toilet there and the sink frozen the people are sitting against the walls because their chairs have been burned, I wasted the maximum degree of time in the arc of the sainthood, leaving all there was to leave behind like dust over th footprints that mean nothing to me. A measure of truth worth more than anything I ever dreamed of creating gave me a reason to continue to work, but when it lead to nothing the death was inevitable, I as impotent as the scholar waiting on the sun for light enough to write by. Given the sainthood and his following situation, the man minus his arms could hardly have been blamed for the sordid places he desired all people to take. And still the question was there, forward, inching toward the stalks of his eyes, does the character have a plausible motivation or are we sitting here waiting to find only that these are the places he wanted us to be taken to, not the places we needed to take him in order that the true sanity could be revealed, and maybe what I was doing was making a word more than it was supposed to be because the memory was not willing to allow me to get away with lying. You in the wavering cloud wait and watch the water come from under my soul until here we find the makings of a cool gelatin.
With wine you have there something that comes from deep within the base of your spine, something you wait for but there couldn't have been a way for you to understand the make and model of a body that pleases you, instead formulating strategems designed to prolong the relative creation of quiet distance between the conscious mind and the part that figures out how to spill, shut all else out, engages in a craft without pretention or awareness, only experience, flexibility, massaging a place that hides peace for you, for me. Who do we talk to when we say things that call for our own deaths, where do they come from when there was a mind once to break kout of and a mind to reconnect? What the hell do you want when you don't give in to the designs that spread out before you a way the determines the species you wish to be, or would have brought into being if it were your hand that swept over the blank page, giving impetus and energy to musccle and mind, creating context amidst a fear of senescence.
sword sway cowering away verbose. confident in the craft, death of a sales people.