Читать книгу Validate Me: A life of code-dependency - Charly Cox - Страница 20

There is only a trace of anaesthetic

In the aesthetics

There is no truth, no freedom

No Holy Spirit’s leading

In the clang of rose-gold copper self care

There is only growth in muddled despair

There is help in the hurting

In the muddied soul searching

In pulling it all out of mind for your eyes to see

It’s mad – a cruel charade

For anyone to sell back your sanity

In bubble baths

Face masks

And breakfast in a bowl from Anthropologie.