7 words in a sentence.

Five to sooth, two are ambiguous. The mind automatically takes the jab which does not exist. 

I wonder as I write this, at half past four on a Thursday morning coming down on speed, whether there is anything perfect. 

Or maybe that question makes the concept impossible. 

Whether just by the mere questioning of the integrity of a perfect thing it becomes tarred, and by that simple unintentional act that thing can never be pure.

I am aware that this is bleak. I am aware that this is probably the comedown and the death but honestly I cannot be fucked with this steaming hot pile of peanut butter shit existence.

On a lighter note my complexion is fantastic today.