pretty is as pretty does.

rest in peace, baby ting.

friends only.
and by friends, i mean complete and utter strangers.

when i was younger i would beat my hands on the windows in my room. like they were built to remind me of looking into a two way carnival mirror, inside out upside down to coffin eyed mechanically expressionist, me. to the fear i am as see through and as useful for scenery as what i see beyond a cross pane, that i hang myself on with literal tendency in literary phrasing. beyond blank stares i am counter top plaster chipping at the brim with an overwhelming amount of hot air. i am exceptional, at a standstill. nothing more than the most useless exception to death. i break down these fragments to brake the light seeping through, right through me.
did it do the trick?