Folded animal, my loneliness: all winter planished by your trespass


The problem with sadness is anything short of bizarre, figurative language is stale air. "I hurt" pencils no mmmm of understanding, it spoons out an old paste of older reaction. Sometimes I wonder why the click of a gasoline lever does not turn your head, and sometimes I realize it's because though the curve of your foot arches and tingles in its insole you are trained to deny the instinctual knowledge "I know you're there".

And, whatever end actually means whatever the last wax drop over an uneven candle lip whyever you did it and know you did it and you are sorry (whoever sorry is)

It's early yet to realign your spine.