...
the weather is grey and harsh and the cold squeezes around bones, cutting to shreds. and the clouds, they spiral into stories that you can't read yet but you can faintly see some resemblance of something you can't quite put your finger on. it'll sit in the back of your mind, quietly waiting until you suddenly realise what it is, like a name you've forgotten or that place where you left your keys or someone you were meant to call.
and you'll walk to the phone and pick it up and speak. the words that cascade from your mouth echo down this telegraph line tonight and you wonder if speaking without thinking is only for the fools who speak without thinking and maybe real thoughts are just for the kindly ones. so they drop. to the ground. without reaching a destination. if a word could shatter, what would it sound like? would it feel pain? if a word can cause pain, then surely it can feel it too.
and you'll put the phone down, and walk away. you'll go outside to read the clouds that spiral into stories, you'll go outside to think.
because we are all kindly ones.
and you'll walk to the phone and pick it up and speak. the words that cascade from your mouth echo down this telegraph line tonight and you wonder if speaking without thinking is only for the fools who speak without thinking and maybe real thoughts are just for the kindly ones. so they drop. to the ground. without reaching a destination. if a word could shatter, what would it sound like? would it feel pain? if a word can cause pain, then surely it can feel it too.
and you'll put the phone down, and walk away. you'll go outside to read the clouds that spiral into stories, you'll go outside to think.
because we are all kindly ones.