This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

Merry Christmas

Hidden in curves of fabric that make them contorted fixtures of violence.  Screw faces on a Christmas night chanting old anglo saxons anthems and stamping there feet in harmony.  Standing at the urinal and talking about your hair and you hum to yourself in articulate self righteous murmurs that make you laugh as they pile into the cubicle imagining that your another person in another world, not swiping numbness particles off the creamy surfaces the same as them, not facing the day with the same dogged determination to stay stoned, the back of the classroom still sits there spitting at the broken mirror of random factors and christmas pours on despite them.  

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