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I am not poetic. I do not need to bathe. I do not need to correct mylsef.
The clock is ticking and we're all running. My orange juice is getting warmer by the Planck second.
My mother came by woman possessed to cooking obsessed, arriving at our side door with pizza and lemon coconut squares and soup "like your mother used to make. Right Tony?" Seven minutes, four breaths and less blind but surely short-sighted insults later she's out the door, orphaned.
It's my intuition telling you the world is sinking. Everyone run for the molehill shillshanty downtowns because no one can be found in caves.
Forgive me for bleeding my guts all over your carpet. There was a wagon driving by and I just couldn't catch up to greet it to keep it to tell it to teach it a lesson about loving someone so much that you put it in your sides in your stomach and you digest the heart until it's a part of your own.
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You never can be too safe.
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