"-- and the incandescence of your skin
crackles like the paper at the tip
of a drawn-on cigarette and dies
in a final fluttering of ash--"
-Craig Arnold

Poetry Prose Junk

Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.
— Edgar Allan Poe. (via thecriminalmastermind)
Posted October 18, 2012 with 6 notes VIA Origin
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