(no subject)
Oh Colin Svolin, on days like these, mornings of gold mountains behind frozen trees, Mr. Svolin kiss my big forhead and hold my tiny wrinkled hands, and make me ask for forgiveness in invisible snow. Make me bake my prayers at room temperature with my eyes closed. Oh Svolin, I cry out to thee my oathe, I swear good brother, good half assed friend, you named head of sin, that I, my love, will break my thumbs, to teach myself your songs, the ones I relunctantly wrote. Good morning, good day, good love of today!