abel can’t spell.
he’s an apple whore.
we judge such things
to help put us in touch
with a past life. or more
likely a future one.
it’s a slippery slope.
there’s a new spot
with french fries
where the buns
open like curtains.
nothing much lives
up in there. only a
late night (and un-
fortunately fully
clothed) game of
twister. no, really,
what lives up in there?
can’t i make my way in?
forge ahead!
yummy!
