atmospherist
Soon the exquisite corpse will drink the wine like it was a refund on yesterday's business. Soon I will bouquet at the sound of your voice, unchained to this concentration camp fence in your esophagus. Soon the snows and toils of Count kill me tomorrow will be resolved, untangled - a rosetta stone to my rubik's cube, soon to be forgotten. Soon it will snow tic-tacs to cover the wounds on our lymph-nodes. Soon enough there will be bandages for what we don't know. It will Soon snow. Soon because it has to. Soon the stars will lasso the moon and re-make it as a sequel: Tic Tac Snow - too fast, too soon.
Soon will cover our tracks and it will take years and years, and world enough, and time, until all that's left
is the period
after the
needle.