He asks to know where from it is I draw
For whom, exactly, I write
It is all gibberish, I say, without telling.
It is about him, from him, isn’t it; he answers his self, running pins of needles through both our skins, mesh of brown and pink and black doesn’t always stitch neatly
Him with hands and fingers, eyes and mouths and legs and stuff.
I have no idea what in the words you’re talking about
My fuckin’ project is been pushed another two weeks. I’ve had alot many two weeks this year
Maybe late april
Who is it, who for, do I draw
I need to sketch them out
ANY BROWN SKINS AVAILABLE?
ps: am not paying, its all natural