How I wish I could wet the lylon string with my tounge, 

that is omnipresent between all living souls. 

The day would eventually come when I will be filled with smoke and alcohol and some melancholic hormones, 

for the primeval wolf to die and to dream.

Three cubes of ice will do, 

my nirvana would dwindle with that ludicrous ice. 

I am no prolific asshole, 

I need more than a chair, a smoke, a glass and a fully functional molested city to die with.  

Whimsical ramblings ain’t gonna come today, 

then how about these gutted words of anything other than immateriality?  

 

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