weighed down by grandiose ideas that don't take into account the life they're crushing out of themselves; as the parts assembled are not perfectly created and start to sag under their own wait for impatiens to blossom
tremulo wavers like streamers from heaven made from cast off tatters of leathery plucked wings no feathers dance but on the wind when buoyed from forces external that press them up against the sky where they writhe in agonized bliss as if clutched in the unseen fist of god and squeezed till they bleed raw emotional joy like almondine mud skyward falling
falling asleep typing here
words won't come, even when I force them. I haven't forgotten your e-mail, Miss Lady. I started to reply but I just felt odd so tomorrow after work.
Everything seems so distant once in enters my eyesockets.
