Spent a glass of wine staring at lines, spent a second glass of wine sketching a glass of wine - not a waste but not a production either (bad capitalist!) like the inability to emote in technologically purple hotel rooms because of course, blood can read cheeks and then I'd be guilty of unmentionable exchange (but in the name of poetry!) loud like sirens or change in pockets on the way to the square (I'll make it just fine) but is it walking or Uncle Vanya's borscht that smells sour? It's hard to tell in the exposed hours.
lines expose cunt abnormalities
also breasts resting in different places
I feel better about misplacement -
The senses are dead. Something about my work goes here.