Broken streetlights

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Will you not ink with whatever the ink that is left in you? Will you not make your lover imperishable? And if there's no ink left will you not use your spit and your blood?

— Letter to my holy self
(In caption)

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The plain proof, that God exists, is that you are beautiful.

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I've loved you in the questions that later became my answers.

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Is it not sad enough that I clenched
my hands and turned around?
Why do you let your heaviness
silence you? Why do you make it worse?

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Whatever you're suffering, I suffer twice.

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Standing at your grave and weeping

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— % & — % & — % & — % & — % & — % &

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Life is a series of the candles of the day.
perpetually melting, One candle at a time.
One man has many and the other has one.
Every man has to fill in the blanks of his fate.
In the light of the melting candles of the day.
Doodly woodly, Color Splash, shading invading with some ash.
Draw, ink-throw, or write four three two one.
Leaving the blank as blank is a luxury to none.
every man must fill, as long as the candles glow.
and read what he has written when the lights off-glow.

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Someone sparkled my sun into the naught sky and I spent my entire life collecting it's pieces.

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