Evidently, Kanye’s village has failed him. He patently doesn’t have a existent friend in the world. There does not rise to be anyone who can stir from stem to stern to him, to promulgate him catch on to that he needs to curb his obnoxious behavior.

you are my favourite thing,

but there is also the smell of a lily while I sleep.

and a tucker nuzzle and a jaxon purr and a payton hug.

the smell of clean sheets, off the line, in the country,

your spaghetti sauce when I feel so bad I can’t eat.

My dad’s crooked smile when he means it,

your bum.

But also, an open sky, a grid road

that art/poem/excerpt that makes me wonder,

is there is someone out there that gets me?

and flannel, air conditioning

Drive-ins…holding hands

a kiss on my neck, a sleeping pill that works,

a mohita, the smell of freshly mowed grass, a cut of fresh cedar with a circular saw

gasoline,

a loon’s cry

and ‘baby i’m amazed’ when i hear it for the first time

again

after a call that you’re thinking about me just cuz its playing

you are my favourite thing