It’s been a curious November…
made a pass at Flex on more than one occasion, he was ever so kind and brushed it off as if it (they) were just one of those thingS (plural important)
–just like he always does–
grey men stopped me in the street and asked me who I thought I was, Flex stood in for me and told them they’d have to wait for their answer
unfortunately we are not the fortunate and nothing shines on us, other than what is deserved, or that’s what Flex always says anyway (states?)
–I’ve just realised these are not my thoughts–
“Look ma no hands, no strings on me, cut me and I bleed”
Flex isn’t a part of my life anymore, he’s relocated to the trees
taste. chew. spit out
malleable art 