starched white shirts so neatly pressed by domestic muses feed delusions that
everything is working out right. but your ribs can't withstand the increasing
weight as your heart gets heavier and sooner or later it falls to the tips of
your toes. and everyday tastes like inhaling when you just lit the wrong end
(that plastic burning scent). your only friends are on the exit ramps of
gridlock caravans. you try to ask how they've been. but the metal and glass is
too thick.
Switch to Russian 
