Strapped for time on the gymnasium and boiling the faucets in every muscle facet, cranking anti-gravity and trying to be languid about it. Fists into a punching bag, wailing away at it as a body - dead weight mass. Dirt under fingernails, sun-burnt shoulder Man - prying the elusive dedication out of himself. Battered soul syndrome won’t be innocuous, but contemptuous limited — provided hard, hard work.
Posted on Friday, 27 April
Tagged as: prose living room thought