What a fruitful day: investigation, matcha with spirulina, (I rarely drink coffee)
limited social obligation
& only little lies.
Not that I’m tied to any one chain
of thought but in winter hordes
of daydreams seize me. And I feel the valliant need to protect them. The sheer voracity of each vine.
A hesitant lick to the ankles and I quickly wear them like my coat; every year more corporeal than before. And shedding upwards leaving a trail of rough diamond skin that I finger.

begin the process:
what I deem to be a casual stroll,
set hours that can shrink or stretch with every face I see in my head or reality, any
stimulant really— whichever one is having me, unremitting confession and
truly worse for the wear.

Having produced a chain letter that now ignites a nightmare, I am forced back into myself.

“form”