Thursday, 16 February 2017


Box up that bullshit.
wrap it up in cellophane.
sell it in a magazine on a plane.
Ask the attendants to litter sentences with that products name.
Sit back, push the set back into the knees of your rival
look out with perfect perspective, so the window and your drink and the window and your drink and the window are set into the horizon. Fresh to death.

somewhere over the clouds, out past the past and round into the future, looking through the window on the starboard side, boring into the back of your head. The wet ice doesn't taste of whisky any more.

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