The forest in a tin can
Is not much worth to the city man
All he prays for is booze and green paper
But when the draft runs dry
And thoughts of “why?”
Like grief, in the night, come knocking
He wishes for no more than death
He knows that’s all he’s sure to get
From above he looks on down
To the metal maze below
Soon, like deflated spiders Read More...
July 15th 2018, (3:11 PM) I will start by saying that I struggled with verbalizing this experience, as, in the absence of psychedelics, everything I am about to tell you seems quite implausible and quite dry, like a photo devoid of all color and only seen through the blurry plastic sheet of a photo album. The words conjure up memories, but these memories are not ones I share with you, and they are also nowhere near as vivid as the experience itself, which saddens me quite a bit. Read More...
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