(no subject)
Here it is. That once time feeling, coming back around again. It feels like an end of sorts. Like I'm having coffee and telling lies to all the beasts I've slain who are jovial on the face, but go home to jot down the scribbles and the static, just like us. The denouement of all our picky days still rests its head on our secret inconsistencies. I have seen the lonely yelling into the parking lot, begging for an echo. They will ask if we remember when fruit fell from the trees and the hungry kicked it aside. And we will have to tell them yes.