bearing
the tone. if there was a tone, and we can’t hear much anymore, we suspect it’s estranged with the colorings of the last hangup.
it’s true, though. i’m at your door with a bag full of unsolicited dogma. redundant platitudes packed into a paper bag. who am i to offer any kind of guidance, who am i to repackage anything as a blessing? i’m not worthy to even try and give anyone directions, because i’m not even there myself. i’m nobody. i’m nobody’s nobody.
but i’m not hungry anymore. and i care. and if it’s night time, i can at least see the glow way off in the horizon, the signature haze. stepping or stumbling or crawling, a bearing is a bearing.
you’re ready to stomp it out. your ego refuses. not from him, not now, not after all that.
so stomp away. we’re here when your ready to wash the shit off your foot.