Apple eating, a lonely sport I'm trying not to play
ah, so I've grown stale and I'm watching my breadcrumbs fed to birds and squirrels at the hands of gray old men on park benches. What a beautiful girlfriend, what a beautiful apartment, beautiful city, tea, coffee, sandwiches, streets, lights, weather, leaves, books, movies, cameras, people, privledgesprivledgesprivledges and she says her hands tingle when I weave my fingers through her hair. All is well. So well I'm finding myself sun bleached. There was this time of infinite restlessness and the need for constant movement, but I've found myself settled and separated and I'm not sure if I need shaking, mixing. My voice sometimes growls like a pick-up on a dirt road, jagged and moaning or something "puffy" like that (thanks Ezra Pound). Every word I write seems to describe, every word is the artificial construct of language used purely for memory when I'd love to tap into that primal language that shakes spines and scratches incantations on the inside of your skull. My skeleton is frozen black iron, yours is frozen black iron, every child's is twigs and every senior's is stained glass. Does that make sense?