Wicked days or the strange case of white beds and a black brekfast

I am

You are

Are we?

Killing in the name of lamps is not killing, it’s illumination

Killing you in the name of me is bliss

Random acts of anger and sweet taste of glue

Wrap myself in cardboard, glue myself to the walls, screaming silent tunes of yellow hummingbirds

Gold plates, silver dollars, copper wires and glass souls,

Nothing is me.

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Freakwave