non-currency

seared silence
  -or-
junket clients

 

 

Fried noggins, a case of the fog encroaching in.  It all seems forsaken, it's a question for later.

I cried as a (fresh)man, the guilt was real but the intentions were muddy.  What's my value as a person?

 

I lied in earnest, confused because a professor said my writing pointed the wrong way...

Sigh(t)ed and (re)signed, who would not c(r)ater?

the meat

was moist

 

 as was

the meeting

a clamoring,

in chagrin