Its not mental gymnastics.
But we make it out to be.
I surrender to your pretest and regress with a soft weathered tone
a husk of nicotine and steel reserve fuse with my cologne
Thats the twilight of my sensation,
thats the level of my perception.
I reckon I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the decaying folk.
To swindle conscious eyes,
and fondle with the tender darkies with chestnut tinted lobotomy eyes.