Volume III [No.5]

If you could smell the dirt of our birth, the steaming mess of mud and sand that coated our placebal ceilings, our linoleum floor, our plush livingroom carpet, that dripped slowly as if from a broken egg shell, falling silently and forming in lumpy conical piles on magazines and empty ash trays, on dvd cases and unmopped floors, covering every inch of every possible space in a thick black skin until nothing shone through and all was dull and quiet like the inside of some fucking strange hole, if you could smell that dirt, then you could taste the very essence of our souls.

         

love, the management-