𝖋𝖔𝖌

every saturday the rain chooses the brain for the next days work that grandmother called rest

one is a _hailstorm filled with second-hand smoke
one runs on the ^dregs on the bottom of a beer bottle
one tortures a stoics _philosophy with limerick and dance
the last is ^victim, reluctant to overcome the melody of a revolver

every sunday the choice is made apparent by what can’t be found through the haze