I intend to resurrect the art of journalistic prose. With a year of crime stats on the adjacent page, this story did not fit in any category. For your consideration, gentle reader:
Naked Shroomer,
In full fight.
On I.V. streets in the night:
What car or SUV
Would dare interrupt thy floppy symmetry?
Tuesday’s Forecast: Poetic whimsy reigns / mushrooms grow.
"+"
“dusty rusty crusty musty ass california hills”
“frowning in plaid (haunted radios, bird bones + anthropomorphized wind)”
“warming my hands on bridges i’ve burnt”
“songs that make me see god”
“My Playlist #236”
“classy wine moment and intellectual conversation”
“90s heroin chic model off duty”
“tweet tweet bird emoji map emoji”
“not my circus, not my monkeys”
“a grave is probably cheaper than an apartment”
“ATE THESE BITCHES LEFT NO CRUMBS / DID IT IN DESIGNER PUMPS”
