Scarlett Watters

roses or flowers of a more surreal nature flood the land with ideas of realism a subconscious reality that you only find in strange deep dark orifices of the sand or between your toes where tree roots jump and tingle lustrous visions of merciless desire spiraling into a concentric circle of black and white or black and white holes in the soles of your shoes that reach the outer limits at ten o'clock on Saturday nights or maybe it was midnight that you stayed up to relax your senses by overloading them with stimulation like the twilight zone you cooed in your comfy chair and awed at the disgusting display of morbid human interest, is innate, isn't that what you told me two nights ago? maybe it was three when you accidentally used the exclamation mark and cried out in surprise at least it wasn't a question mark that could have meant far more detrimental signs of maddening mental anguish, your maddening desire to live blatantly yet questioning your own reason  for being blatant, for being so disgustingly mildly blatant that you felt the need to brag about your talent to find your way through the orifices with moist fingers, and no I don't mean that in a sexual way, but I know you will take it that way and make it an ever so blatantly forceful point to imply your indecisive nature to be decisive.