westid

i’m sitting alone besides a sulzer. for whatever this sulzer will weave. it’s not keeping things on the table so much as it has something for your locker to receive. such transient people we are, until the rumbling of the tectonic plates. born into somewhere relentness, mother earth negates. she does it all silently, vanishing not time tryst. but this very deed has nothing by which we’re born to live for – yet still honours that you exist