Wasn't it. I'm writing to the rest of the world, poorest wind, that stench of twisted grievance, a flitted wrist, slitted and required. it spilled out, the longing. I was twisting, twisting and weaving. I know now that the flows returns differently in type. The sound, slamming against the four walls, the bookshelves, and the woven tapestry. Fishes
(
Read more... )