You dont know Adagio or the nature of his four-in-hand, holding
on to his staccato quill, until a curated spill painting the canvas
with obsidian ink, as the twilight blooms with the moon over his
shoulder pooling into insomnia, a midnight rain of caffeine,
a breathless hemmorage of Folgers in the pot, until the marrow
of his shit hits the fan
Rated for Everyone
You Don’t know Adagio
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