VeNtInG mAcHiNe WiTh No CaTeGoRy
By the totally kickass moi, Brittany Pears
Have you ever stared at the moon, really stared, long and hard, examined all the cracks and edges and wondered, wondered how they got there?
I have a crack. In my arm. A long, skinny as a string bean scar. From a equally long brown leather belt. It hurt at first but then the pain soon melted away. Now it's just a stinging reminder.
At least I'm like the moon.
The moon is pretty though, all silvery and gleaming, shining brightly in all its glory, proudly beaming its glow down on the dark and gloomy earth, casting a sparkling shadow of illusion and cheering the darkness that follows the night.
So I guess the moons a criminal, stealing reality and replacing it with natures mirrored beauty. Yet in a way the moons an artist, painting a portrait of love and casting its locliness onto the already perfect banks and rivers, keeping perfection to the gazers of stars and whatnot.
I like the moon.