P.S.

The world is an oyster and seafood nauseates me but the bridge is
beautiful and red is the color I've been meaning to see but nothing works
out the way I wanted because everything works out the way it should because
it's incapable of doing elsewise and I'm rightfully unlikable and we're all
noises and vision is overrated by those that possess the ability to possess
said but I'm worried about every tense and I'm tense about every worry and
I'm ever so lonely right now but they're still words that still can't
express the still feelings that we're all still trying to pretend not to
feel and I'm still alone in trying not to be so alone in the attic attuned
to the lack of my shepherd's sympathy and surprise surprise it's a painfully
bumpy ride down horny street and drinks were drunk by almost all of us when
the bell rang the hour we'd been dreading to've been so tickingly bled off
about and so bleedingly ticked off topic to've picked the tits that didn't
matter to the one but so much to the other side of the road whereupon it's
just as hard to navigate the nights and denigrate the days beneath the
river's surface so much water so much colder than ice and eyes are watching
with such warmth would that they weren't all closed to the lashes upon the
backs of the members of the factions of the fictions harbored so
thoughtlessly within us without a care in the world save for the one still
begging to exist.