titubant.

A hundred minute foiled promotions,

hungry and false-driven to a bundle theory.

hypthothetically trembling in the white filled walls of my own train of cerebrums.

From after tons of illuminating street signs with powerful nautical memory,

I gallivanted side-streets underneath overpasses and above trenches,

hopping freeways and junctions, directing a secrecy between cities and a stomached feeling of a certain location.

Uncertainty and reprimanding reluctancy stabs my back constantly, ever so harshly scratching the surface of my muscles, digging deep enough to leave a century old scar.

Resembling the size of a year old cigarette burn.