Glossy

In loops of chaos you bring me your worries, your TV radiation and unsmelled gasses. A training day, an industry standard, all the things we have not invented. The tumble dries, the deadlove flies, all lying on your window cill, and still, I am not for talking, I am not for sale. My answer is not to your question, and the weeds? they have all overgrown, grown all over your mobile throne. And I have worries of my own.