The scare in my head stuck in the gloss of my ass, accelerating in dog years, at a picnic. Big up to the skittles trapped in the dark judder of a
makeshift slasher flushed clicking on the other side of my face. Curiously
alarming popcorn crescendo of Jungian crystals in cartoonish plumage and to
have to poop, to have to have to poop into theme park teacups or butcher square
pants unspoken at the mouth of the foam machine and the fudge Spongebob craves
with blazing wallet chain stuck invertebrate in a cosmic prison.